74
WIND-
HAR
P
SONGS.
Ay,
I
love
ye
well,
ye
witch-flames,
gay,
As
I
sit
at
mine
ingle
and
mind
your
play
May
ye
and
I
be
friends
for
long
Ye
skip-jig
Muses
of
my
song.
IN
A
CEMETERY.*
I
SAT
among
the
earthed
and
speechless
dead,
While
in
the
west
the
great
sun,
round
and
red,
Sank
like
a
sign
behind
the
hazy
hills.
My
thoughts
were
floated
far
in
solemn
trance,
The
heights
of
life
and
death
stood
in
my
glance
And
all
the
vale
that
intervening
fills.
The
giggling
laugh
smote
faint
upon
my
ear
Of
thoughtless
ones
who
jested
there,
anear,
While
on
the
bourne
the
day
s
life
burned
out
clear.
A
dry
wind,
lingering,
touched
upon
my
brow,
And
seemed
to
whisper
:
& quot;
Work
your
worth
out
now,
For
all
the
hope
of
man
you
see
below.
& quot;
Tween
hills
of
dawn
and
dark
a
little
vale,
A
little
day
before
the
light
shall
fail,
And
then
oblivion,
soundless,
swift
and
pale. & quot;
O
mystery
of
joy
and
all
held
dear
!
O
mystery
of
pain
and
death
and
fear
!
O
mystery
of
all
we
may
not
know
!
*
Hillside
Cemetery,
Plainfield,
New
Jersey.
