Preludes, 8

Go down, my songs, now to the land unknown, —
The starless kingdom that has Death for king, —
About the silent porches close and cling.
Through windless air, where bird hath never flown,
Or waste, gray fields, wherein no flower hath blown,
Hills from whose barren bosom wells no spring,
Let your tones rise, and die in echoing;
And by their sadness let my love be shown.

Then, like the echo lasting, it may be
A voice shall answer; but if otherwise,
Cease not! nor strive to solve Death's mystery.
For she may hear you, though no voice replies.
Go then! and say, " He follows in our wake,
Who bade us hasten here for his love's sake."