The Poems of Henry Abbey

assels thatch the roofs with brown, The narrow roofs, beneath whose small confines No dweller wakens: tho' the rains weep down, Tho' winds, the mighty mourners, by the spot Go unconsoled, the inmates waken not. Along the unbusy street my way I keep, Between the houses tenanted by death, And seek the place where lies my friend asleep, Alien to this the life of light and breath. And here his grave, where wild vines bloom and grope, Makes recollection seem as sweet as hope. For he, my friend, was gentle, wise and true; Pleasant to him a beggar's thankful word; He spoke no ill of others, and he knew And loved clear brooks, green dells, and flower, and bird; And now the flowers strive to return his love By growing here his humble grave above. But tears are more than flowers, and make for peace, Tho' God by grief is oft misunderstood. In tears I made complaint of his decease Whom I had loved, for he was young and good; I made complaint that He who rules on high Should suffer here the young and good to die. O Death! sole warder at the gates of time, For ever more to those thy hinge swing wide Whose hope is flown, whose souls are stained with crime ? Give way to all who are dissatisfied With their recurrent days, and long to cease ; Swing wide for such, and to the old give peace. But close and bar thy black and mournful gates Against the good, the beautiful, the young, Whose lives the lamp of hope ill...