Excerpt from The Golden Journey: And Other Verses

Antwerp.

Chime of bells from the Cathedral.

Morning.

Mourn for the dead!
Lift up your voice as she of old,
In Rama wailed, and wept aloud
For those she should no more behold.
Mourn for the dead!

Noon.

Mourn for the dead!
Mourn that the short life race is run,
The limbs in death laid stiff and cold
Ere yet the longed-for goal was won.
Mourn for the dead!

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