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    Robert Calverley Trevelyan

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    Dirge

      Gone is he now.
      One flower the less
      Is left to make
      For thee less lone
      Earth's wilderness,
      Where thou
      Must still live on.

      What hath been, ne'er
      May be again.
      Yet oft of old,
      To cheat despair,
      Tales false and fair
      In vain
      Of death were told.

      O vain belief!
      O'erweening dreams!
      Trust not fond hope,
      Nor think that bliss
      Which neither seems,
      Nor is,
      Aught else than grief.


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