O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song, br Thy right hand full of smiting & of wrong, br Thy left hand holding pity; & thy breast br Heaving with hope of that so certain rest: br Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid, br The soft lips trembling not, though they have said br The doom of the World and those that dwell therein. br The lips that smile not though thy children win br The fated Love that draws the fated Death. br O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath, br Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart, br That, if it may be, I may have a part br In that great sorrow of thy children dead br That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head, br Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream, br And death the murmur of a restful stream, br But left no stain upon those souls of thine br Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine. br O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one, br Come thou; for sure I am enough alone br That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw, br And wrap me in the grief of long ago.