TO MARY AVENEL

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead,
 Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive,
Maiden, attend! Beneath my foot lies hid
 The Word, the Law, the Path which thou dost strive
To find, and canst not find. Could Spirits shed
 Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep,
Showing the road which I shall never tread,
 Though my foot points it. Sleep, eternal sleep,
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot!
 But do not thou at human ills repine;
Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot
 For all the woes that wait frail Adam's line—
Stoop then and make it yours,—I may not make it mine!