| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | XX. The Burial
An Old Song | | By Alma Strettell (1856–1939) |
| | From the German of Heinrich Heine
DEAD thou art, and know’st not thou art dead, | |
| Pale thy little mouth, once rosy red; | |
| From thine eyes the light of life is gone, | |
| Dead thou art, my own dead little one. | |
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| One weird summer night, when none might see, | 5 |
| To thy grave myself I carried thee; | |
| Nightingales made plaint, and stars withal | |
| Followed sadly in thy funeral. | |
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| Through the wood we passed, and ’mid the trees | |
| Rang the echo of our litanies; | 10 |
| Lofty pines, in sable veils arrayed, | |
| Muttered hoarsely, praying for the dead. | |
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| By the lake, where weeping willows grow, | |
| Little elves were dancing to and fro; | |
| But they stopped their sport as we passed by, | 15 |
| Gazing on us with a pitying eye. | |
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| When we reached thy grave, from out the sky | |
| Came the moon, and made thine elegy; | |
| Sobs and wailing echoed through the dell, | |
| And afar there tolled a muffled bell. | 20 | | | |
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