Only a little, O Father, only to rest
      Or ever the night comes and the eternal sleep,
      Only to rest a little, a little to weep
In the dead love's pitiful arms, on the dead love's breast,

A little to loosen the frozen fountains, to free
      Rivers of blood and tears that should slacken the pulse
      Of this pitiless heart, and appease these pangs that convulse
Body and soul; oh, out of Eternity,

A moment to whisper, only a moment to tell
      My dead, my dead, what words are so helpless to say—
      The dreams unuttered, the prayers no passion could pray,
And then—the eternal sleep or the pains of hell,

I could welcome them, Father, gladly as ever a child
      Laying his head on the pillow might turn to his rest
      And remember in dreams, as the hand of the mother is prest
On his hair, how the Pitiful blessed him of old and smiled.