Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/173

 Let Grief be her own mistress still. ⁠She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will ⁠Be done—to weep or not to weep.

I will not say "God's ordinance ⁠Of Death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance ⁠That takes away a noble mind.

His memory long will live alone ⁠In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, ⁠And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near ⁠Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seemed distant, and a tear ⁠Dropt on my tablets as I wrote.