Explore "At the Grave of Heine" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
South-heart of song / In winter drest, / Death mends thy wrong; / That is life's best.
Bird, who didst sing / From a bare bough, / Call, and what Spring / Will answer now!
And haste with her / Bud-legacy, -- / O, not to share, / To take of thee!
Thy night, slow, dark, / Yet song-lit shone, / Till who did hark / Missed not the moon;
When Morning found / Thy cold, pierced breast, / 'Twas she who moaned, / To thy thorn pressed.
_Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn / Through whose high morn the bird sings on._