At a Grave

I

As out of the dark the stars,

Broke forth the heavenly bars

Of passion strong, —

The wild bird’s song,

Borne, wave on wave,

From a branch above a grave.

Mute heart, you, listening, heard

The music of the bird;

‘T was in your cry, —

” A song had I,

But oh, I know

Of the dead asleep below! ”

II

Oft I call, he nothing hears;

Foolish is grief as death is wise.

The white peace chides me where he lies, —

” None would know again the years. ”

by John Vance Cheney