The Mourner

I have no heart for noon-tide and the sun, But I will take me where more tender night Shakes, fold on fold, her dewy darkness down, And shelters me that I may weep in peace, And feel no pitying eyes, and hear no voice Attempt my grief in comfort's alien tongue.

Where cypresses, more black than night is black, Border straight paths, or where, on hillside slopes, The dim grey glimmer of the olive trees Lies like a breath, a ghost, upon the dark, There will I wander when the nightingale Ceases, and even the veiled stars withdraw Their tremulous light, there find myself at rest, A silence and a shadow in the gloom.

But all the dead of all the world shall know The pacing of my sable-sandal'd feet, And know my tear-drenched veil along the grass, And think them less forsaken in their graves, Saying: There's one remembers, one still mourns; For the forgotten dead are dead indeed.