Poems — To the Beloved Dead - A Lament

TO THE BELOVED DEAD--A LAMENT

Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers Play on a window-pane.

The time is there, the form of music lingers;

But O thou sweetest strain, Where is thy soul?

Thou liest i' the wind and rain.

Even as to him who plays that idle air, It seems a melody, For his own soul is full of it, so, my Fair, Dead, thou dost live in me, And all this lonely soul is full of thee.

Thou song of songs!

--not music as before Unto the outward ear;

My spirit sings thee inly evermore, Thy falls with tear on tear.

I fail for thee, thou art too sweet, too dear.

Thou silent song, thou ever voiceless rhyme, Is there no pulse to move thee, At windy dawn, with a wild heart beating time, And falling tears above thee, O music stifled from the ears that love thee?

Oh, for a strain of thee from outer air!

Soul wearies soul, I find.

Of thee, thee, thee, I am mournfully aware, --Contained in one poor mind, Who wert in tune and time to every wind.

Poor grave, poor lost beloved!

but I burn For some more vast To be.

As he that played that secret tune may turn And strike it on a lyre triumphantly, I wait some future, all a lyre for thee.