At The Grave Of Heine

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Title:     At The Grave Of Heine
Author: Olive Tilford Dargan [More Titles by Dargan]

South-heart of song
In winter drest,
Death mends thy wrong;
That is life's best.

Bird, who didst sing
From a bare bough,
Call, and what Spring
Will answer now!

And haste with her
Bud-legacy,--
O, not to share,
To take of thee!

Thy night, slow, dark,
Yet song-lit shone,
Till who did hark
Missed not the moon;

When Morning found
Thy cold, pierced breast,
'Twas she who moaned,
To thy thorn pressed.

Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn
Through whose high morn the bird sings on.

[The end]
Olive Tilford Dargan's poem: At The Grave Of Heine

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