New Zealand Verse/A Dirge
CXIV.
A Dirge.
Come not with sundered flowers to strew her grave;
Nor be there any curtain but the grass,
Dewed by the Night and by the winds that pass
Tranced with the slumber of the level wave;
Or if one cloud of the empyrean nave
Shall float a shadow on her shrouded face,
Be it the shrine of this mysterious place,
Bestowing shelter she for ever gave:
And if the anthem of this holy rood
Fall from the throat of some forgotten bird,
Faint with the press of heaven upon his wings,
Be it the bruised fragrance that is stirred
In the sad heart, remembering happier things
That are the angels of this solitude.
Nor be there any curtain but the grass,
Dewed by the Night and by the winds that pass
Tranced with the slumber of the level wave;
Or if one cloud of the empyrean nave
Shall float a shadow on her shrouded face,
Be it the shrine of this mysterious place,
Bestowing shelter she for ever gave:
And if the anthem of this holy rood
Fall from the throat of some forgotten bird,
Faint with the press of heaven upon his wings,
Be it the bruised fragrance that is stirred
In the sad heart, remembering happier things
That are the angels of this solitude.