Bring Them Not Back

Yet, o my friend—pale conjurer, I call Thee friend—bring, bring the dead not back again, Since for the tears, the darkness and the pain Of unrequited friendship—for the gall That hatred mingles with fond love—for all Life’s endless turmoil, bitterness and bane, Thou hast given dreamless rest. Still let the rain, And sunshine, and the dews from heaven fall Upon the graves of those whose peaceful eyes Thy breath hath sealed forever. Let the song Of summer birds be theirs, and in the skies Let the pale stars keep vigil all night long. O death, call not the holy dead to rise, Again to feel the cold world’s ruth and wrong.

Collection: 
English
James Benjamin Kenyon

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