Dirge / Madison Cawein

Dirge
WHAT shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep, And all is done.

Lights, when the tree-top swings; Scents that are sown; Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings; And the bee’s drone: These be her comfortings Under the stone.

What shall watch o’er her here When day is fled? Here, when the night is near And skies are red; Here, where she lieth dear And young and dead.

Shadows, and winds that spill Dew, and the tune Of the wild whippoorwill, And the white moon,— These be the watchers still Over her stone.