Dirge For The Silver Haired Daughter

No roses o'er thy grave,

Nor polished mossy stones,

But memory to save,

The water depths cradle thy bones,

No isle for thee,

No cairn, nor stately mound,

But the corals of the sea,

And unreached by sound,

Solemn rest ye,

In thy sleep,

Living shade in my memory,

That time has not it's harvest reaped,

Requiem for my daughter,

Still hast fallen thy silver tress,

To the black blade, and senseless slaughter,

And the heel that doth opress,

No high cliff side tomb,

No kingly hill,

No candle lit room,

Only blue water deep and still,

Time is a fire which ever burns,

Making ashes of your silver hair,

And the mind's eye ever yearns,

But thou art gone and I must despair,

Thee lies forgotten in thy slumber,

No marker nor polished stone,

One of a faded number,

Lying in thy lost grave alone,

The smile of wine but a shade,

And the harp but fool's gold,

For the book of death has bade,

That without you I shall ever grow old,

I your poor old father,

A vagabond winedrunk,

With empty heart and coffer,

Looking westward, where thy grave is sunk.