ROSA IGNOTA
VI
THE VALLEY
Ir is undone, the spell, and I am cast
Out to the winds; at last
I shall perish utterly, I know:
But I shall lie asleep on the breast of the Past,
Nor feel the sun, nor the tempest, nor the snow,
And all my woe
Shall be as naught to me,
For I shall be utterly free
As I am utterly dead.
So let no requiem be said
Over my mouldering head,
And let no vague, sweet songs be sung
By any tongue!
For he to whom the songs are given
Hath no ear to receive.
The chord is riven,
And he did not believe.
He had no fear to die, for death could give
No more pain .
Than that he knew whilst he did live.
He lives again
In the earth
Whence he had birth.
Gladly he lies at rest, asleep, unknown,
His ashes scattered to the four winds, blown
About the world: his songs
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