The night is dark, and evermore
The thick drops patter on the pane
The wind is weary of the rain,
And round the thatches moaneth sore;
Dark is the night, and cold the air;
And all the trees stand stark and bare,
With leaves spread dank and sere below,
Slow rotting on the plashy clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below--
Cold, cold below!

And many a bitter day and night
Have pour'd their storms upon her breast,
And chill'd her in her long, long rest,
With foul corruption's icy blight;
Earth's dews are freezing round the heart,
Where love alone so late had part;
And evermore the frost and snow
Are burrowing downward through the clay,
In the God's-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,--
Cold, cold below!

Those eyes so full of light are dim;
And the clear chalice of her youth,
All sparkling up with love and truth,
Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;--