COMFORT—BY A COFFIN.
Ah, friend of mine,
The old enchanted story!—Oh,
I cannot hear a word!
Tell some poor child who loved a bird,
And knows he holds it stained and still,
"It flies—in Fairyland!
Its nest is in a palm-tree, on a hill;
Go, catch it—if you will!"
The old enchanted story!—Oh,
I cannot hear a word!
Tell some poor child who loved a bird,
And knows he holds it stained and still,
"It flies—in Fairyland!
Its nest is in a palm-tree, on a hill;
Go, catch it—if you will!"
Ah, friend of mine,
The music (which ear hath not heard?)
At best wails from the skies,
Somehow, into our funeral cries!
The flowers (eye hath not seen?) still fail
To hide the coffin lid;
Against this face, so pitiless now and pale,
Can the high heavens avail?
The music (which ear hath not heard?)
At best wails from the skies,
Somehow, into our funeral cries!
The flowers (eye hath not seen?) still fail
To hide the coffin lid;
Against this face, so pitiless now and pale,
Can the high heavens avail?
Ah, friend of mine,
I think you mean—to mean it all!
But then an angel's wing
Is a remote and subtle thing,
I think you mean—to mean it all!
But then an angel's wing
Is a remote and subtle thing,
