A Dirge

Fold thy palms across thy breast,

Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.

      Let them rave.

Shadows of the silver birk

Sweep the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

Nothing but the small cold worm

Fretteth thine enshrouded form.

      Let them rave.

Light and shadow ever wander

O'er the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

Chaunteth not the brooding bee

Sweeter tones than calumny?

      Let them rave.

Thou wilt never raise thine head

From the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

The woodbine and eglatere

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear.

      Let them rave.

Rain makes music in the tree

O'er the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

Bramble roses, faint and pale,

And long purples of the dale.

      Let them rave.

These in every shower creep

Thro' the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

The frail bluebell peereth over

Rare broidry of the purple clover.

      Let them rave.

Kings have no such couch as thine,

As the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.

God's great gift of speech abused

Makes thy memory confused—

      But let them rave.

The balm-cricket carols clear

In the green that folds thy grave.

      Let them rave.