Classic Poem

Rismel is mermaid now no more;
And the sea forsakes my tale.
And so I tell of the chiming bell,
And the mists of wedding veil:
And of children sweet, who bathe their feet
Where the blossoms drift the dale.

This is a tale of hidden things,
Which Love, alone, can find —
A tale that sinks in the sad sea wave,
And mounts in the soft night wind;
A tale that rides on the star-flecked tides,
That, under the cliffs, grow blind.

Who reads this tale and still doth mourn
For suns gone down the West,
Is as a woman who doth press
A dead babe to her breast,
While at her gate the living wait
And weep to be caressed.

More graves than one each man shall dig;
( " A sexton's trade we ply. " )
For every twilight spreads a grave
Where some dead love doth lie —
Some poor and pitiful dead love
That, buried, does not die.

And only shall these loves awake
When Thanatos rides by.
So bid the mourners all disperse;
And dry thine own sad eye:
For the wisp of clay that rides away
Is scarcely worth a sigh.