Three Songs , opus 18

"Oh tell me once and tell me twice
  And tell me thrice to make it plain,
When we who part this weary day,
  When we who part shall meet again."

"When windflowers blossom on the sea
  And fishes skim along the plain,
Then we who part this weary day,
  Then you and I shall meet again."

"Yet tell me once before we part,
  Why need we part who part in pain?
If flowers must blossom on the sea,
  Why, we shall never meet again.

"My cheeks are paler than a rose,
  My tears are salter than the main,
My heart is like a lump of ice
  If we must never meet again."

"Oh weep or laugh, but let me be,
  And live or die, for all's in vain;
For life's in vain since we must part,
  And parting must not meet again

"Till windflowers blossom on the sea,
  And fishes skim along the plain;
Pale rose of roses let me be,
  Your breaking heart breaks mine again."

  Child --
O mother, lay your hand on my brow!
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?

  Mother --
Fear not at all: the night is still.
Nothing is here that means you ill --
Nothing but lamps the whole town through,
And never a child awake but you.

  Child --
Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,
Some of the things are so great and near,
Some are so small and far away,
I have a fear that I cannot say.
What have I done, and what do I fear,
And why are you crying, mother dear?

  Mother -- 
Out in the city, sounds begin,
Thank the kind God, the carts come in!
An hour or two more and God is so kind,
The day shall be blue in the windowblind,
Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,
And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly 'round brot
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot,
The road it is rough and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings:

   Rattle his bones over the stones!
   He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.

Oh where are the mourners? Alas, there are none,
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone.
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman or man
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can.

What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din
The whip, how it cracks and the wheels, how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
To hurry the pauper, his trip from this world.

Poor pauper, defunct, he has made some approach
To gentility, now he is stretched in a coach;
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last
But it will not be long if he goes on so fast.

But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad
To think that a heart in humanity clad,
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.

   Bear softly his bones over the stones
   Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.