Ii

It is not well for me to hear That song's appealing melody: The pain of loss comes all too near, Through it, to me.

The loss of her whose love looks through The mist death's hand hath hung between-- Within the shadow of the yew Her grave is green.

Ah, dream that vanished long ago! Oh, anguish of remembered tears! And shadow of unlifted woe Athwart the years!

That haunt the sad rooms of my days, As keepsakes of unperished love, Where pale the memory of her face Hangs, framed above.

This olden song of love and sleep, She used to sing, is now a spell That opens doors within the deep Of my heart's hell,

In music making visible One soul-assertive memory, That steals unto my side to tell My loss to me.