"And where she resteth, evermore one constant song they raise, Of 'Holy, holy,' so that now I know not if she prays; "But for the voice of Praise in Heaven, a voice of Prayer hath gone From Earth; thy name upriseth now no more; pray on, pray on!" f A SONG A LITTLE cloud that hung, my iove, So low 'twixt earth and sky, Too sad it seemed for Earth from Heaven Afar, yet ever nigh; And oft it longed on Earth's warm breast To fall in kindly rain, And oft on morn or evening's crest To leave a crimson stain; Keen arrow pierced it through, All fleecy thin, all milky white, What could it do but fade, my love, And melt into the blue? A little wind that hid, my love, And shook a music unforbid From out the withered sedge, And whistled o'er the dreary moor, And round the barren hill, And sighed at many a fastened door And darkened window-sill, And through the forest whirled and swept, When leaves fall wearily, And o'er the lake's cold bosom crept, And moaned beside the sea, Until between the sea and sky It found a quiet cave, All lined with mosses soft and dry, Afar the restless wave; What could it do but die, my love? What could it do but die? |