An Office for the Dead
To be said within the heart:
How is the city become desolate, and how lonely is now the household, that once were full of people! …
How is the fountain stopped up, and the lamp become extinguished!
How is our fire gone out, and how are the ashes scattered upon the hearth!
For now the hand of the Potter hath shattered the vessel that He made.
And the Mother hath hidden from us with a veil, the face of our Beloved.
Dark is the night, and terrible is the storm in the midst of the burning-ghât.
Swift and deep is the river to bear away the scattered dust.
Infinite is Time, into which hurry the passing souls.
And Love cries out in vain to stay the hand of death.
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