What task is this that so unnerves me now?
When pity should be dead, and has been dead.
Unloose that sheet from round the pierced brow;
What matter blood is seen, for blood is red,
And red-s the colour of the clammy earth.
Be not so solemn,-There-s no need to pray;
But, rather smile, - yea, laugh! If pure, thy mirth
Is right. He laughed himself but yesterday.
That pay-book? Take it from him. Ours a debt
No gold can ever pay. That cross of wood
About his neck? That must remain, and yet
He needs it no, because his heart was good.
We-ll house him -neath those broken shrubs; dig deep.
He-s tired. God knows, and needs a little sleep.