Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel

(1834-1894 / England)

Dead - Poem by Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel

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.

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.

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

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.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 22, 2010

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