48
THE SINGER.
Cool-rooted flowers, which come
So near to that still home,
Their ways the dead must know,
So near to that still home,
Their ways the dead must know,
And shivers in the grass,
When winds of summer pass,
And whisper, as they go,
When winds of summer pass,
And whisper, as they go,
Of the mad life above,
Where men like masquers move;
Or are they ghosts?—who knows?—
Where men like masquers move;
Or are they ghosts?—who knows?—
Sad ghosts who cannot die.
And watch slow years go by
Amid those painted shows.
And watch slow years go by
Amid those painted shows.
Who knows? For on her tongue
What never may be sung
Seemed trembling, and we wait
What never may be sung
Seemed trembling, and we wait
