Poems (Lowell, 1844, English edition)/A Dirge

For works with similar titles, see A Dirge.
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A DIRGE.

Poet! lonely is thy bed,And the turf is overhead,— Cold earth is thy cover;But thy heart hath found release,And it slumbers full of peace'Neath the rustle of green trees,And the warm hum of the bees Mid the drowsy clover;Through thy chamber still as deathA smooth gurgle wandereth,As the blue stream murmureth To the blue sky over. ​Where thy stainless clay doth lieClear and open is the sky,And the white clouds wander by,Dreams of summer, silently Darkening the river;Thou hearest the clear water run,And the ripples, every oneScattering the golden sun, Through thy silence quiver.
Thou wast full of love and truth,Of forgivingness and ruth,—Thy great heart with hope and youth Tided to o'erflowing;Thou didst dwell in mysteries,And there lingered on thine eyesShadows of serener skies,Awfully wild memories That were like foreknowing;Thou didst remember well and longSome fragments of thine angel-song,And strive, through want, and woe, and wrong, To win the world unto it; ​Thy curse it was to see and hearBeyond to-day's scant hemisphere,Beyond all mists of doubt and fear,Into a life more true and clear,— And dearly thou didst rue it.
"Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!"Muttered Earth, turning in her sleep;"Come home to the eternal deep!"Murmured a voice, and a wide sweepOf wings through thy soul's hush did creep, As of thy doom o'erflying;It seemed as thy strong heart would leapOut of thy breast, and thou didst weep,But not with fear of dying;Men could not fathom thy deep fears,They could not understand thy tears,The hoarded agony of years Of bitter self-denying;So once, when, high above the spheres,Thy spirit sought its starry peers,It came not back to face the jeers Of brothers who denied it; ​Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deepsOf God, and thy white body sleepsWhere the lone pine for ever keeps Patient watch beside it.
Poet! underneath the turf, Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow;Thou hast struggled through the surf Of wild thoughts, and want, and sorrow;Now, beneath the moaning pine, Full of rest thy body lieth,While, far up in pure sunshine,Underneath a sky divine, Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth!Oft she strove to spread them here,But they were too white and clearFor our dingy atmosphere.
Thy body findeth ample roomIn its still and grassy tomb By the silent river;But thy spirit found the earthNarrow for the mighty birth ​ Which it dreamed of ever;Thou wast guilty of a rhymeLearned in a benigner clime,And of that more grievous crime,—An ideal too sublimeFor the low-hung sky of Time.
The calm spot where thy body liesGladdens thy soul in Paradise, It is so still and holy;Thy body sleeps serenely there,And well for it thy soul may care,It was so beautiful and rare, Lily-white so wholly:From so pure and sweet a frameThy spirit parted as it came, Gentle as a maiden;Now it hath its full of rest,Sods are lighter on its breastThan the great prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden.
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