The Singer

ITHIN the crimson gloomOf that dim, shaded roomI heard a singer sing.

She sang of life and death,Of joys that end with breath,And joys the end doth bring;

Of passion's bitter pain,And memory's tears like rain,Which will not cease to flow;

Of the deep grave's delights,Where through long days and nightsThey hear the green things grow,

Cool-rooted flowers, which comeSo near to that still home,Their ways the dead must know,

And shivers in the grass,When winds of summer pass,And whisper, as they go,

Of the mad life above,Where men like masquers move;Or are they ghosts?—who knows?—

Sad ghosts who cannot die.And watch slow years go byAmid those painted shows.

Who knows? For on her tongueWhat never may be sungSeemed trembling, and we wait

To catch the strain complete,More full, but not more sweet,Beyond the golden gate.