Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/90

 They die, and behold, I am living, While they and their dead Gods give Place.

Yea: Too lightly the words were spoken That mourned or mocked at thee dead: But whose was the word, the token, The song that answered and said Nay?

Whose But mine, in the midnight hidden, Clothed round with the strength of night And mysteries of things forbidden For all but the one most bright Muse?