Poems (Cary)/Of One Dying

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OF ONE DYING.
In the blue middle heavens of June The sun was burning bright,What time we parted—now! alas, 'Tis winter-time and night.The swart November long ago, With troops of gloomy hours,Went folding the October's tents Of misty gold, like flowers.
The wind hangs moaning on the pane, The cricket tries to sing,And a voice tells me all the while, It never will be spring;It never will be spring to her, For in the west wind's flow,I hear a sound that seems to me Like digging in the snow.
She will not have to lay away The baby from her knees—The wild birds sung his lullaby Last summer in the trees; ​The cedars and the cypresses, That in the churchyard grow—But little Alice will be left— How shall we make her know,
When she shall see the pallid brow, The shroud about the dead,That the beloved one is in The azure overhead?For scarcely by the open grave, Have we of larger lightAnd clearer faith, the strength to shape The spirit's upward flight.
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