Scarce the sunset bloom was gone,
    And the little stars outshone,
    Ere the dead year, stiff and stark,
    Drew me to her in the dark;
    Death drew life to come to her,
    Beating at her sepulchre,
    Crying out, “How can I part
    With the best share of my heart? 
    Lo, it lies upon the bier,
    Captive, with the buried year. 
    O my heart!” And I fell prone,
    Weeping at the sealed stone;
    “Year among the shades,” I said,
    “Since I live, and thou art dead,
    Let my captive heart be free,
    Like a bird to fly to me.” 
    And I stayed some voice to win,
    But none answered from within;
    And I kissed the door—­and night
    Deepened till the stars waxed bright
    And I saw them set and wane,
    And the world turn green again.

    “So,” I whispered, “open door,
    I must tread this palace floor—­
    Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
    Let a narrow sunbeam swim
    After me, and on me spread
    While I look upon my dead;
    Let a little warmth be free
    To come after; let me see
    Through the doorway, when I sit
    Looking out, the swallows flit,
    Settling not till daylight goes;
    Let me smell the wild white rose,
    Smell the woodbine and the may;
    Mark, upon a sunny day,
    Sated from their blossoms rise,
    Honey-bees and butterflies. 
    Let me hear, O! let me hear,
    Sitting by my buried year,
    Finches chirping to their young,
    And the little noises flung
    Out of clefts where rabbits play,
    Or from falling water-spray;
    And the gracious echoes woke
    By man’s work:  the woodman’s stroke,
    Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe. 
    And the whetting of the scythe;
    Let this be, lest shut and furled
    From the well-beloved world,
    I forget her yearnings old,
    And her troubles manifold,
    Strivings sore, submissions meet,
    And my pulse no longer beat,
    Keeping time and bearing part
    With the pulse of her great heart.

    “So; swing open door, and shade
    Take me; I am not afraid,
    For the time will not be long;
    Soon I shall have waxen strong—­
    Strong enough my own to win
    From the grave it lies within.” 
    And I entered.  On her bier
    Quiet lay the buried year;
    I sat down where I could see
    Life without and sunshine free,
    Death within.  And I between,
    Waited my own heart to wean
    From the shroud that shaded her
    In the rock-hewn sepulchre—­
    Waited till the dead should say,
    “Heart, be free of me this day”—­
    Waited with a patient will—­
    AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL.