Poet whose sunny span of fruitful years
Outreaches earth, whose voice within our ears
Grows silent- shall we mourn for thee? Our sigh
Is April’s breath, our grief is April’s tears.
If this be dying, fair it is to die.
Even as a garment weariness lays by,
Thou layest down life to pass, as Time hath passed,
From wintry rigors to a Springtime sky.
Are there tears left to give thee at the last,
Poet of spirits crushed and hearts down-cast,
Loved of worn women who, when work is done,
Weep o’er thy page in twilights fading fast?
Oh, tender-toned and tender-hearted one,
We give thee to the season new begun-
Lay thy white head within the arms of Spring-
Thy song had all her shower and her sun.
Nay, let us not such sorrowful tribute bring,
Now that thy lark-like soul hath taken wing:
A grateful memory fills and more endears
The silence when a bird hath ceased to sing.