The Poetry Corner

To The Beloved Dead--A Lament

By Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

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.