I

Beneath the trees, My lifelong friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not, I hear the autumnal breeze Wake the dry leaves to sigh for gladness gone, Whispering vague omens of oblivion, Hear, restless as the seas, Time's grim feet rustling through the withered grace Of many a spreading realm and strong-stemmed race, Even as my own through these.

Why make we moan For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearning of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone Our lives were but for this immortal gain Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain! As thrills of long-hushed tone Live in the viol, so our souls grow fine With keen vibrations from the touch divine Of noble natures gone.

'Twere indiscreet To vex the shy and sacred grief With harsh obtrusions of relief; Yet, Verse, with noiseless feet, Go whisper: 'This death hath far choicer ends Than slowly to impearl to hearts of friends; These obsequies 'tis meet Not to seclude in closets of the heart, But, church-like, with wide doorways, to impart Even to the heedless street.'