Dirge - In sorrow of her bereavement

What longer need hath she of loveliness

Whom Death has parted from her lord's caress?

Of glimmering robes like rainbow-tangled mist,

Of gleaming glass or jewels on her wrist,

Blossoms or fillet-pearls to deck her head,

Or jasmine garlands to adorn her bed?

Put by the mirror of her bridal days. . . .

Why needs she now its counsel or its praise,

Or happy symbol of the henna leaf

For hands that know the comradeship of grief,

Red spices for her lips that drink of sighs,

Or black collyrium for her weeping eyes?

Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string

Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling

Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,

Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,

Divest her of her azure veils and cloud

Her living beauty in a living shroud.

Nay, let her be! . . . what comfort can we give

For joy so frail, for hope so fugitive?

The yearning pain of unfulfilled delight,

The moonless vigils of her lonely night,

For the abysmal anguish of her tears,

And flowering springs that mock her empty years?