THE UNFINISHED BOOK.
237
Or last clasp of life-warm fingers,
Which we knew not was the last.
Or, as we apart do lay,
The day after funeral-day,
Their dear relics, great and small,
Who need nothing—yet win all:
All the best we had and have,
Buried in one silent grave.
Which we knew not was the last.
Or, as we apart do lay,
The day after funeral-day,
Their dear relics, great and small,
Who need nothing—yet win all:
All the best we had and have,
Buried in one silent grave.
All our highest aspirations,
And our closest love of loves;
Our most secret resignations,
Our best work that man approves,
Yet which jealously we keep
In our mute heart's deepest deep.
So of this poor broken song
Let no echoes here prolong:
For the singer's voice is known
In the heaven of heavens alone.
And our closest love of loves;
Our most secret resignations,
Our best work that man approves,
Yet which jealously we keep
In our mute heart's deepest deep.
So of this poor broken song
Let no echoes here prolong:
For the singer's voice is known
In the heaven of heavens alone.
