ELEGY
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et them bury your big eyesIn the secret earth securely,Your thin fingers, and your fair,Soft, indefinite-colored hair,--All of these in some way, surely,From the secret earth shall rise;Not for these I sit and stare,Broken and bereft completely;Your young flesh that sat so neatlyOn your little bones will sweetlyBlossom in the air. But your voice,--never the rushingOf a river underground,Not the rising of the windIn the trees before the rain,Not the woodcock's watery call,Not the note the white-throat utters,Not the feet of children pushingYellow leaves along the guttersIn the blue and bitter fall,Shall content my musing mindFor the beauty of that soundThat in no new way at allEver will be heard again. Sweetly through the sappy stalkOf the vigorous weed,Holding all it held before,Cherished by the faithful sun,On and on eternallyShall your altered fluid run,Bud and bloom and go to seed;But your singing days are done;But the music of your talkNever shall the chemistryOf the secret earth restore.All your lovely words are spoken.Once the ivory box is broken,Beats the golden bird no more.
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