Lionel Johnson

Dead

  To Olivier Georges Destrée

IN Merioneth, over the sad moor
    Drives the rain, the cold wind blows: 
    Past the ruinous church door, 
The poor procession without music goes.

Lonely she wandered out her hour, and died.
    Now the mournful curlew cries 
    Over her, laid down beside 
Death's lonely people: lightly down she lies.

In Merioneth, the wind lives and wails,
    On from hill to lonely hill: 
    Down the loud, triumphant gales, 
A spirit cries Be strong! and cries Be still!