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.
Dirge. (brisbane.) "a Little Soldier Of The Army Of The Night."
Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Poem topics: grief, nature, soul, waste, breath, death, heart, spring, bird, blind, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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