Gone.

The night is dark, and evermore         The thick drops patter on the pane         The wind is weary of the rain,     And round the thatches moaneth sore;         Dark is the night, and cold the air;         And all the trees stand stark and bare,     With leaves spread dank and sere below,         Slow rotting on the plashy clay,         In the God's-acre far away,     Where she, O God! lies cold below--             Cold, cold below!     And many a bitter day and night         Have pour'd their storms upon her breast,         And chill'd her in her long, long rest,     With foul corruption's icy blight;         Earth's dews are freezing round the heart,         Where love alone so late had part;     And evermore the frost and snow         Are burrowing downward through the clay,         In the God's-acre far away,     Where she, O God! lies cold below,--             Cold, cold below!     Those eyes so full of light are dim;         And the clear chalice of her youth,         All sparkling up with love and truth,     Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;--         No more can mortal ear rejoice         In the soft music of her voice;     No wistful eye, through tears of woe,         Can pierce down through the heavy clay,         In the God's-acre far away,     Where she, O God! lies cold below,--             Cold, cold below.     A star shines, sudden, from the sky--         God's angel cometh, pure and bright,         Making a radiance through the night,     Unto the place where, mute, I lie,         Gazing up in rapt devotion,         Shaken by a deep emotion;     And my thoughts no longer go         Wandering o'er the plashy clay,         In the God's-acre far away,     Where she, O God! _lay_ cold below--             Cold, cold below!     God's angel! ah I divinely bright!         But still the olden grace is there--         The soft brown eyes--the raven hair--     The gentle smile of calm delight,         That could such peace and joy impart--         The veil is rent from off my heart,     And gazing upward, well I know         The rain may beat upon the clay         In the God's-acre far away;     But she no longer lies below,     Enshrouded by the frost and snow--             Cold, cold below!