Dirge "A Little Soldier Of The Army Of The Night"

Bury him without a word!
No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
And the blind spring's breath.

Nature slays ten, yet the one
Reaches but to a part
Of what's to be done, to be sung.
Keep we a proud heart!

Let us not glose her waste
With lies and dreams;
Fawn on her wanton haste,
Say it but seems.

Comrades, with faces unstirred,
Scorning grief's dole,
Though with him, with him lies interred
Our heart and soul,

Bury him without a word!
No appeal to death;
Only the call of the bird
And the blind spring's breath.