An Epitaph

Here a gentle poet lies,
Hurt to death by stinging flies.
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.
He hath more joy in the swift flight
Of some shy star that flew the night,
Than all thy laughter e'er could know.
If thou hadst tears to welcome grief,
The sharpest arrows in her sheaf
Found in his pitying breast their home.
He knew the swift bee's wandering way,
The music of its roundelay,
Its city sweet of honeycomb.
The little leaves' soft melody,
That whisper on the secret tree,
Gave to his song its mystic tune.
His path was on the gypsies' road.
On the high hills he held abode,
His lamp the shimmering moon.
Down to the valley did he spring,
To share the treasures he did bring
Within the casket of his heart.
A glimpse was here of heaven's blue,
Tears for thy grief and laughter too.
To all he fain would give a part,
So when they saw a bird or flower,
They too would know the poet's hour,
And from their lips his song would flow.
But in the vale the stinging flies
Hurt him to death. Now cold he lies!
Hush thy laughter, whisper low.