Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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