Yes, weep for him; no more
Shall such high songs have birth;
Gone is the harp he bore
Forever from the earth.
Weep, weep, and scatter flowers
Above his precious dust;
Child of the heavenly powers—
Divine, and pure, and just.
Weep, weep—for when to-night
Shall hoot the hornèd owl,
Beneath the pale moon's light
The human ghouls will prowl.
What creatures those will throng
Within the sacred gloom,
To do our poet wrong—
To break the sealèd tomb?
Not the great world and gay
That pities not, nor halts
By thoughtless night or day,
But,—O more sordid-false!—
His trusted friend and near,
To whom his spirit moved;
The brother he held dear;
The woman that he loved.
"JOCOSERIA"
Men grow old before their time,
With the journey half before them;
In languid rhyme
They deplore them.
