Dirge
If there be any grief
For those lost eremites
Who live where no man roams,
It is on Autumn nights
At falling of the leaf,
It is when pale October,
Relentless tree-disrober,
Conceals the smokeless homes.
Autumn is not so chill
Nor leaves so light in air,
Nor any wind as dim
Blowing from any where,
Nor fallen snow as still
As the boy who loved to wander
Singing till the forest yonder
Shouted in response to him.
My love has come to this—
And what of this to me?
His eyes are eaten now,
My eyes he cannot see;
