ANTIPHONAL.
Reading edition
When I am gone the stones will talk of me, The elm-trees speak together in the blast, as now, And weep that I shall never more return; And, be it that the dust shall grasp the throat of prayer, and strangle it, My hands, white-rising from the earth, Will try again to sweep the lyre of song, And quench the voice of death above my grave; The day star in its flight will answer me.