At the Bier of Hope

The night winds drone, in mournful lay,
A solemn requiem o'er the dead.
Lamented Hope of yesterday,
Was there naught you could will instead—
Naught, save a vast uncharted sea
Beset with shoals of misery?
In my heart's blood I dip my pen,
The tears, fast falling, dim my eyes,
A sigh escapes my lips, and then
I strive to rend the binding ties
That stay my hand lest I should write
And, thereby, ease a storm swept mind.
Alas! though I exert my might,
Expressiveness I fail to find.