Still, voiceless, cold,
They lie in their shrouds and hold
The crumbling links that make
A chain for Memory's sake,
Broken, alas! too soon.
Blithe morn and brazen noon
And eve with garb of gray and gold,
Know them no more in the dark ways they take.
They have forgot the sun,
And the fiery worlds that run
About it. Something--(what, let no man say,)--
Begot of mystery is in mystery done:
The rest shall be with them and God alway.