Rupert Atkinson

Dirge

SLOW, slow across the black bleak range
I see them move, I hear them moan;
Their heavy sorrow knows no change :
It is my own.

Cold, cold the coffin that they bear
Yet darkens all the doleful earth,

Pale with the shadow of her hair,
And her dead mirth.

Death, death shall tarry when no grief

Survives, nor joy, nor any woe;
No wanton hope; no wan belief;

This, all men know.