Poems (Lowell, 1844, English edition)/A Dirge
For works with similar titles, see A Dirge.
A DIRGE.
Poet! lonely is thy bed,
And the turf is overhead,—
Cold earth is thy cover;
But thy heart hath found release,
And it slumbers full of peace
'Neath the rustle of green trees,
And the warm hum of the bees
Mid the drowsy clover;
Through thy chamber still as death
A smooth gurgle wandereth,
As the blue stream murmureth
To the blue sky over.
Where thy stainless clay doth lie
Clear and open is the sky,
And the white clouds wander by,
Dreams of summer, silently
Darkening the river;
Thou hearest the clear water run,
And the ripples, every one
Scattering the golden sun,
Through thy silence quiver.
And the turf is overhead,—
Cold earth is thy cover;
But thy heart hath found release,
And it slumbers full of peace
'Neath the rustle of green trees,
And the warm hum of the bees
Mid the drowsy clover;
Through thy chamber still as death
A smooth gurgle wandereth,
As the blue stream murmureth
To the blue sky over.
Where thy stainless clay doth lie
Clear and open is the sky,
And the white clouds wander by,
Dreams of summer, silently
Darkening the river;
Thou hearest the clear water run,
And the ripples, every one
Scattering the golden sun,
Through thy silence quiver.
Thou wast full of love and truth,
Of forgivingness and ruth,—
Thy great heart with hope and youth
Tided to o'erflowing;
Thou didst dwell in mysteries,
And there lingered on thine eyes
Shadows of serener skies,
Awfully wild memories
That were like foreknowing;
Thou didst remember well and long
Some fragments of thine angel-song,
And strive, through want, and woe, and wrong,
To win the world unto it;
Thy curse it was to see and hear
Beyond to-day's scant hemisphere,
Beyond all mists of doubt and fear,
Into a life more true and clear,—
And dearly thou didst rue it.
Of forgivingness and ruth,—
Thy great heart with hope and youth
Tided to o'erflowing;
Thou didst dwell in mysteries,
And there lingered on thine eyes
Shadows of serener skies,
Awfully wild memories
That were like foreknowing;
Thou didst remember well and long
Some fragments of thine angel-song,
And strive, through want, and woe, and wrong,
To win the world unto it;
Thy curse it was to see and hear
Beyond to-day's scant hemisphere,
Beyond all mists of doubt and fear,
Into a life more true and clear,—
And dearly thou didst rue it.
"Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!"
Muttered Earth, turning in her sleep;
"Come home to the eternal deep!"
Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep
Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep,
As of thy doom o'erflying;
It seemed as thy strong heart would leap
Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep,
But not with fear of dying;
Men could not fathom thy deep fears,
They could not understand thy tears,
The hoarded agony of years
Of bitter self-denying;
So once, when, high above the spheres,
Thy spirit sought its starry peers,
It came not back to face the jeers
Of brothers who denied it;
Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps
Of God, and thy white body sleeps
Where the lone pine for ever keeps
Patient watch beside it.
Muttered Earth, turning in her sleep;
"Come home to the eternal deep!"
Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep
Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep,
As of thy doom o'erflying;
It seemed as thy strong heart would leap
Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep,
But not with fear of dying;
Men could not fathom thy deep fears,
They could not understand thy tears,
The hoarded agony of years
Of bitter self-denying;
So once, when, high above the spheres,
Thy spirit sought its starry peers,
It came not back to face the jeers
Of brothers who denied it;
Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps
Of God, and thy white body sleeps
Where the lone pine for ever keeps
Patient watch beside it.
Poet! underneath the turf,
Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow;
Thou hast struggled through the surf
Of wild thoughts, and want, and sorrow;
Now, beneath the moaning pine,
Full of rest thy body lieth,
While, far up in pure sunshine,
Underneath a sky divine,
Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth!
Oft she strove to spread them here,
But they were too white and clear
For our dingy atmosphere.
Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow;
Thou hast struggled through the surf
Of wild thoughts, and want, and sorrow;
Now, beneath the moaning pine,
Full of rest thy body lieth,
While, far up in pure sunshine,
Underneath a sky divine,
Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth!
Oft she strove to spread them here,
But they were too white and clear
For our dingy atmosphere.
Thy body findeth ample room
In its still and grassy tomb
By the silent river;
But thy spirit found the earth
Narrow for the mighty birth
Which it dreamed of ever;
Thou wast guilty of a rhyme
Learned in a benigner clime,
And of that more grievous crime,—
An ideal too sublime
For the low-hung sky of Time.
In its still and grassy tomb
By the silent river;
But thy spirit found the earth
Narrow for the mighty birth
Which it dreamed of ever;
Thou wast guilty of a rhyme
Learned in a benigner clime,
And of that more grievous crime,—
An ideal too sublime
For the low-hung sky of Time.
The calm spot where thy body lies
Gladdens thy soul in Paradise,
It is so still and holy;
Thy body sleeps serenely there,
And well for it thy soul may care,
It was so beautiful and rare,
Lily-white so wholly:
From so pure and sweet a frame
Thy spirit parted as it came,
Gentle as a maiden;
Now it hath its full of rest,
Sods are lighter on its breast
Than the great prophetic guest
Wherewith it was laden.
Gladdens thy soul in Paradise,
It is so still and holy;
Thy body sleeps serenely there,
And well for it thy soul may care,
It was so beautiful and rare,
Lily-white so wholly:
From so pure and sweet a frame
Thy spirit parted as it came,
Gentle as a maiden;
Now it hath its full of rest,
Sods are lighter on its breast
Than the great prophetic guest
Wherewith it was laden.