Dead Poem by Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel

I.
WHERE the child's joy-carol
Rang sweeter than the spheres,
There, centre of deep silence,
Darkness, and tears,
On his bed
The child lay dead.

II.
There a man sat stolid,
Stupefied and cold,
Save when the lamp's flicker
To poor love told
Some mocking lie
Of quivering eye,
Or lip that said,
'
He is not dead.
'

III.
Weary Night went weeping,
Moaning long and low,
Till dim Dawn, awaking,
Found them so -
The heart that bled,
And his dim dead.

IV.
'
Measure him for his coffin,
'
And then he broke to laughing,
'
God! measure my poor clay,
And shut me in my coffin,
A soul gone grey!
For hope lies dead,
Life is fled.
'