Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/66

Far off it walks, in a bleak blown space,
⁠Full of the sound of the sorrow of years.
I have woven a veil for the weeping face,
⁠Whose lips have drunken the wine of tears;
I have found a way for the failing feet,
A place for slumber and sorrow to meet;
There is no rumour about the place,
⁠Nor light, nor any that sees or hears.

I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said
⁠"Let none take pity upon thee, none
Comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead,
⁠Lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun.
Have I not built thee a grave, and wrought
Thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought,
With soft spun verses and tears unshed,
⁠And sweet light visions of things undone?

"I have given thee garments and balm and myrrh,
⁠And gold, and beautiful burial things.
But thou, be at peace now, make no stir;
⁠Is not thy grave as a royal king's?
Fret not thyself though the end were sore;
Sleep, be patient, vex me no more.
Sleep; what hast thou to do with her?
⁠The eyes that weep, with the mouth that sings?"

Where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten,
⁠The cold old crimes and the deeds thrown by,