[BNP/E3, 78B – 1]

Final Image

On Baby's Death.

With the doleful dead man's bell

Ring, oh, ring not Baby's knell!

Let her calmly, calmly sleep,

|But with the flowe’rs fresh from[1] the dell|

Make thou a music wild and deep,

Such as men can but know well

     When their souls have learnt to weep.

As if Love's self had gone from earth

Oh, sing a music that has birth

In the suspension of commotion

For thus hath death made our emotion.

Sing thou a song more deep and true

Than the vague, soft song of ocean

The quiet darkness moaning through.

Sing into sad tears our distress!

Oh, let soft sorrow be thy strain![2]

She's gone beyond our love's caress,

Giving to life more loneliness

     And to mystery more pain.

Alexander Search.

[1] the flowe’rs fresh from ^{/sounds on\}

[2] Oh, let soft sorrow be thy strain! (deriv.?)