The Wanderer's Soul

OH, why should I weep because men weep !
For me fierce winds are singing,
And past the mists and the veils of rain,
A blithesome Soul, I’m winging.
And past the moon, with her pool of dreams
And her ruined hills forlorn,
I seek the tale she has long forgot,
And I hear Orion’s horn.
Orion hunts with the laughing Dead;
And, down the thundering skies,
They point my little grave to me
Where wet in the field it lies.
Anita Fitch.