To The Beloved Dead--A Lament

Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers          Play on a window-pane.     The time is there, the form of music lingers;          But O thou sweetest strain,     Where is thy soul?    Thou liest i' the wind and rain.     Even as to him who plays that idle air,          It seems a melody,     For his own soul is full of it, so, my Fair,          Dead, thou dost live in me,     And all this lonely soul is full of thee.     Thou song of songs!--not music as before          Unto the outward ear;     My spirit sings thee inly evermore,          Thy falls with tear on tear.     I fail for thee, thou art too sweet, too dear.     Thou silent song, thou ever voiceless rhyme,          Is there no pulse to move thee,     At windy dawn, with a wild heart beating time,          And falling tears above thee,     O music stifled from the ears that love thee?     Oh, for a strain of thee from outer air!          Soul wearies soul, I find.     Of thee, thee, thee, I am mournfully aware,          --Contained in one poor mind,     Who wert in tune and time to every wind.     Poor grave, poor lost beloved! but I burn          For some more vast To be.     As he that played that secret tune may turn          And strike it on a lyre triumphantly,     I wait some future, all a lyre for thee.