So Far Still the Tomb
The little song-bird is still
Fluttering by the calm hill
Of a wide countryside;
To death the bees have buzzed.
The lingering clouds are yet to yield;
Still protesting in the wild airy field;
Yon young beads of rain left to mourn:
To the grey occident your entreaty moan;
So far the countryside is a proud fen:
She happily woos a bunch of selfish men
Now the majestic sea bewails their calm hill:
That tomb that still spells to men: “Kill!”
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