158
AGATHA'S SONG.
Sooner or later, the stainless snowsShall add their hush to my mute repose;Sooner or later shall slant and shiftAnd heap my bed with their dazzling drift.
Chill though that frozen pall shall seem,Its touch no colder can make the dreamThat recks not the sweet and sacred dreadShrouding the city of the dead.
Sooner or later, the bee shall comeAnd fill the noon with his golden hum;Sooner or later, on half-poised wing,The bluebird's warble about me ring,—
Ring and chirrup and whistle with glee,Nothing his music means to me;None of these beautiful things shall knowHow soundly their lover sleeps below.
Sooner or later, far out in the night,The stars shall over me wing their flight;Sooner or later, the answering dewsCatch the white spark in their silent ooze.
