[BNP/E3, 153 – 59]

DIRGE.

Cold she lies in her early grave.

     Cold, how cold!

Gone her tresses’ warmèd wave

{…}

Far is she from all human dole —

     Far, so far!

From her lips has gone the soul,

From her eyes has gone the star —

Gone as goes the {…} star

Gone as {…} the {…} star —

Gone to her grace — her very mien..... —

     Look where a fire hath been.

What is more cold than aches are?

                        Charles Robert Anon.

April, 1905.