TO THE DEAD. 135 IV. One saith who knew thee well, who loved thee true, Like gentlest wind in a close grove of pine, Known but by sound and fragrance breathed therethrough. Another saith he feels thee draw the clue Thou here didst hold with us, a soul divine, A thing of light, and blent with day's clear shine, Thy lesser loves have cheer; but what to me No voice I hear, I turn to God from thee: God's pity! when Death's sundering blow doth fall MIGRATION. THE caged bird, that all the autumn day Beats at the wires and its poor wings doth fray: |