CALLING THE DEAD.
My little child, so sweet a voice might wake
So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a sake;
Calling your buried brother back to you
You laugh and listen—till I listen too.
So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a sake;
Calling your buried brother back to you
You laugh and listen—till I listen too.
. . . Why does he listen? It may be to hear
Sounds too divine to reach my troubled ear;
Why does he laugh? It may be he can see
The face that only tears can hide from me.
Sounds too divine to reach my troubled ear;
Why does he laugh? It may be he can see
The face that only tears can hide from me.
Poor baby faith, so foolish or so wise:—
The name I shape out of forlornest cries
He speaks as with a bird's or blossom's breath.
How fair the knowledge is that knows not Death!
The name I shape out of forlornest cries
He speaks as with a bird's or blossom's breath.
How fair the knowledge is that knows not Death!
. . . Ah, fools and blind!—through all the piteous years
Searchers of stars and graves—how many seers,
Calling the dead, and seeking for a sign,
Have laughed and listened, like this child of mine?
Searchers of stars and graves—how many seers,
Calling the dead, and seeking for a sign,
Have laughed and listened, like this child of mine?
