 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
A DIRGE
The glory of my sleep,When the mute house is calm,
Are the eyes that I seem to know,
And the hands that once were warm.
Dear eyes they seem to weep,
And hands ye are cold as snow.
For the grave is very deep
And I know not any charm
Can win you out of sleep,
And make the old kiss glow,
The old soft fingers warm;
My praying brings no balm,
The cold gods see my woe,
But beyond them lies a deep,
Where they own no power to harm,
Where is sleep,
Where is calm?
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |