The Poetry Corner

A Dirge.

By Walter R. Cassels

Winds are sighing round the drooping eaves; Sadly float the midnight hours away; Dun and grey athwart the ivy-leaves, Fall the first pale chilly tints of day, Ah me! the weary, weary tints of day. Soon the darkness will be past and gone; Soon the silence spread its noiseless wing; Sleep will strike its tent and hurry on; Life commence its weary wandering, Ah me! its weary, weary wandering. Not the sighing of my lonely heart, Not the heavy grief-clouds hanging o'er, Not its silence can with night depart: Gloom hangs o'er it ever, evermore, Ah me! darkness ever, evermore.