These
mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden’s locks;
Or
when a thousand moons shall wane
A
man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung
by a long-forgotten mind.
But
what of that? My darken’d ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To
utter love more sweet than praise.