How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner <br /> As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, <br />As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, <br /> And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear; <br />When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming, <br />When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, <br />Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming, <br /> And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. <br />Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, <br /> Or summer succeed to the winter of death? <br />Rest awhle, hapless victim! and Heaven will save <br /> The spirit that hath faded away with the breath. <br />Eternity points, in its amaranth bower <br />Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lour, <br />Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, <br /> When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bereavement/
