Chapter LIX

No wind is this which cries forlorn
Around the hilltops and the woods!--
Earth, weary of her multitudes
Of dead, despairing of the morn,
Calls through illimitable night
The wailing words no thing may know;
Deep in her memory-haunted sight
Sleeps no remembrance of delight,
But death and everlasting woe.

No wind! a voice whose sense is form;
A form whose sense is but a sound;
That smites the constant skies around,
And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:
Adown life’s desolate deep it cries
The words death’s sterile lips must learn
From Law, the Law that never dies--
Such utterless, wild speech as sighs
In stone and cinerary urn.