Mortals, ye who dwell below,
Look! we come, a feathery host,
All the fairies of the snow,
To your sublunary coast.
Swiftly wheeling, fluttering, reeling
Round the firmamental ceiling,
And each other, just as midges
Wanton in an August day,
Downward winding as ye play,
Sink upon the vales and ridges
Of the bare earth, cold and gray.
Tenderly, my bonny maids,
Linger here before ye pass;
Cease your frolic escapades
As ye hover, for, alas!
Heaved below us like a wave
Is a lovely maiden's grave
Roughly veiled in withered grass.
Fold it softly ere ye go,
In our woof of purest snow.
For the virgin soul that gave
Beauty to the dust below,
Was as white and full of light,
Full of sparkle, even, as we,
In her overflowing glee!
An, the poor deserted clay,
Once so beautiful and bright,
All who loved her far away,
How forlorn it seems to-night,
In the dim, bewildering light!
And these flowers, a sodden mass
Sunken in the unshorn grass,
Sadly mouldering, mutely say:
“They who loved her are away,
Far, far away, alas!"
Tenderly, and very tender,
Our love service let us render;
The poor dust our mantles fold
Shall not lie alow so cold;
And the rooted things that keep
A dim memory in their sloop,
Soothed and sheltered, shall resume,
In an earlier-budding spring,
Their memorial blossoming.
Speed, my fairies! time ne'er tarries;
Ply our never-sounding loom,
Woolly soft and warm let fall
Our light warp and woof o'er all,
In a hush too deep to stir
The great calm surrounding her
In the unbreathing sepulchre!
Could the silence of the tomb,
Touched by heavenly magic, bloom
Into vision, this we spread
Gently o'er her lowly bed,
While the breath of heaven is still,
Should be silence visible!
While the feet of Winter beat
The cold earth above her head,
Ere the sleeping violet hears
The new summons to repeat
Her heart's sweetness in its sweet,
Fold her in our purest shroud
Woven from the windless cloud,
Then to melt in stainless tears
When the fervid sun appears!
George Shepard Burleigh
