But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, Console if you will, I can bear it; 'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death. It is pagan; but wait till you feel it, Communion in spirit! Forgive me, That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down. IN THE TWILIGHT. MEN say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; All it dreamed when it stood The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood |