Lix

No wind is this which cries forlorn Around the hilltops and the woods!-- Earth, weary of her multitudes Of dead, despairing of the morn, Calls through illimitable night The wailing words no thing may know; Deep in her memory-haunted sight Sleeps no remembrance of delight, But death and everlasting woe.

No wind! a voice whose sense is form; A form whose sense is but a sound; That smites the constant skies around, And shakes the steadfast hills with storm: Adown life’s desolate deep it cries The words death’s sterile lips must learn From Law, the Law that never dies-- Such utterless, wild speech as sighs In stone and cinerary urn.