sympathy poem

all those treasures that lie
mysterious night
glass-blower of time
she might have known it in the earlier spring
noises that strive to tear
do i like it
with the meek, brown eyes
before the solemn bronze saint
do not grieve that it is over
i think it just splendid
though love repine, and reason chafe
my son is dead and i am going blind
no prey am i of poor thoughts
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead