DIRGE

Bury him without a word! No appeal to death; Only the call of the bird And the blind spring's breath.

Nature slays ten, yet the one Reaches but to a part Of what's to be done, to be sung. Keep we a proud heart!

Let us not glose her waste With lies and dreams; Fawn on her wanton haste, Say it but seems.

Comrades, with faces unstirred, Scorning grief's dole, Though with him, with him lies interred Our heart and soul,

Bury him without a word! No appeal to death; Only the call of the bird And the blind spring's breath.