Elegy

        Let them bury your big eyes
        In 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 neatly
        On your little bones will sweetly
        Blossom in the air.

        But your voice,--never the rushing
        Of a river underground,
        Not the rising of the wind
        In the trees before the rain,
        Not the woodcock's watery call,
        Not the note the white-throat utters,
        Not the feet of children pushing
        Yellow leaves along the gutters
        In the blue and bitter fall,
        Shall content my musing mind
        For the beauty of that sound
        That in no new way at all
        Ever will be heard again.

        Sweetly through the sappy stalk
        Of the vigorous weed,
        Holding all it held before,
        Cherished by the faithful sun,
        On and on eternally
        Shall your altered fluid run,
        Bud and bloom and go to seed;
        But your singing days are done;
        But the music of your talk
        Never shall the chemistry
        Of the secret earth restore.
        All your lovely words are spoken.
        Once the ivory box is broken,
        Beats the golden bird no more.