A Dirge

Now is done thy long day’s work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave.
Shadows of the silver birk[1]
Sweep the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Thee nor carketh[2] care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Let them rave.
Light and shadow ever wander
O’er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Chaunteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny?
Let them rave.
Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Crocodiles wept tears for thee;
The woodbine and eglatere
Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear.
Let them rave.
Rain makes music in the tree
O’er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Round thee blow, self-pleached[3] deep,
Bramble-roses, faint and pale,
And long purples[4] of the dale.
Let them rave.
These in every shower creep.
Thro’[5] the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

The gold-eyed kingcups fine:
The f