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For works with similar titles, see A Dirge.

     A bell tolls on in my heart
       As though in my ears a knell
       Had ceased for awhile to swell,
     But the sense of it would not part
     From the spirit that bears its part
       In the chime of the soundless bell.

     Ah dear dead singer of sorrow,
       The burden is now not thine
       That grief bade sound for a sign
     Through the songs of the night whose morrow
     Has risen, and I may not borrow
       A beam from its radiant shrine.

     The burden has dropped from thee
       That grief on thy life bound fast;
       The winter is over and past
     Whose end thou wast fain to see.
     Shall sorrow not comfort me
       That is thine no longer--at last?

     Good day, good night, and good morrow,
       Men living and mourning say.
       For thee we could only pray
     That night of the day might borrow
     Such comfort as dreams lend sorrow:
       Death gives thee at last good day.