You, Whom The Grave Cannot Bind
You, whom the grave cannot bind,
Shall a song hold you?
Still you escape from the mesh
Spun to enfold you.
Your woven texture of flesh
Short time confined you.
Sib to the sun and the wind,
Shall a song bind you?
The Silent Dead
There's a little boy who lives next door
With hair like you,
Pale, pale hair and a rose-white skin
And his eyes are blue.
When I get a chance I peep at him,
Who is so like you,
Terribly like, my dead, my fair,
For he's dumb, too.
O You, Dear Trees, You Have Learned So Much Of Beauty
O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty,
You must have studied this only the ages long!
Men have thought of God and laughter and duty.
And of love. And of song.
But you, dear trees, from your birth to your hour of dying,
Have cared for this one way only of being wise.
Lovely, lovely, lovely, the sapling sighing.
Lovely the dead tree lies.
