Dead

To Olivier Georges Destrée.

In Merioneth, over the sad moor Drives the rain, the cold wind blows: Past the ruinous church door, The poor procession without music goes.

Lonely she wandered out her hour, and died. Now the mournful curlew cries Over her, laid down beside Death's lonely people: lightly down she lies.

In Merioneth, the wind lives and wails, On from hill to lonely hill: Down the loud, triumphant gales, A spirit cries Be strong! and cries Be still!