Elegy

Let them bury your big eyes              In the secret earth securely,              Your thin fingers, and your fair,              Soft, indefinite-colored hair,--              All of these in some way, surely,              From the secret earth shall rise;              Not for these I sit and stare,              Broken and bereft completely;              Your young flesh that sat so neatly              On your little bones will sweetly              Blossom in the air.              But your voice,--never the rushing              Of a river underground,              Not the rising of the wind              In the trees before the rain,              Not the woodcock's watery call,              Not the note the white-throat utters,              Not the feet of children pushing              Yellow leaves along the gutters              In the blue and bitter fall,              Shall content my musing mind              For the beauty of that sound              That in no new way at all              Ever will be heard again.              Sweetly through the sappy stalk              Of the vigorous weed,              Holding all it held before,              Cherished by the faithful sun,              On and on eternally              Shall your altered fluid run,              Bud and bloom and go to seed;              But your singing days are done;              But the music of your talk              Never shall the chemistry              Of the secret earth restore.              All your lovely words are spoken.              Once the ivory box is broken,              Beats the golden bird no more.