A Voice from the Waters

The swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain
   On my grave
Fall pure; for why complain?
Since both will come again
   O’er the wave.

The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
And, once, a day shall break
   O’er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake
   In the grave.

[Kelsall, 1851]