'Tis He

Who wrote so fair

Death thieved me away

Henceforth I felt restless

And it was thereafter

For many years on end

Awake from the dark grave

Abroad in the night

That I would quietly creep

Searching for her

Till the early light of yonder morn

And when I was heard

Or slightly found

Afeared voices would call

Into the misty night

Who is there? Who goes!?

And cold hands I would raise

To which came my reply:

“’Tis he, who is there

He who wrote so fair

I once wrote of our love

But thanks to death

Through the midnight air

I now wander in search

Aye, even in death don’t forget

‘Tis he, who is there

‘Tis he, with a flaming pen

Who put to paper her romantic grin

Inscribed a thousand times

And a thousand eft

Behold, ‘tis he who engraved in your hearts

A boiling love with flaming parts

Who’s there?

‘Tis he, who eagerly enshrined

Dight with ink ablaze

From writing of her burning ways

About how love stays and stays

Through all the March’s, April’s, and May’s

‘Tis he, ‘tis he,’ even says my grave:”

‘Tis he! ‘Tis he!

Who lies in this heap

That wrote of a love so fair

And a heart that did beat

Even write he did of her hair

Also: eyes, cheeks, mouth, chin, and heart,

Fingers, love, beauty, and feet

‘Tis he! ‘Tis he! The master of love

That is who is buried so deep!

Until late one night

Death called upon her

To come to sleep

That forever slumber

We all must meet

Now we are together

And quietness consumes

A once noisy grave

That restless love

That could not sleep

Forever in darkness

Together in peace