Up the never-vacant stair,—
Four-and-twenty dead go down;
Follow, sacred song and prayer.
⁠Wind again, wind again,—
Warden, why delaying there?

To his interrupted dream
Comes the long-entreated day.
What are lesser words to him?
Sweet pursuing voices say,—
⁠"Warden, wind, wind again,
Up the ever-golden way."

Other hands will wind the clock
While the frequent years go on,
Never noting need or name
Nor the rapture of the dawn.
⁠Wind again, wind again,
Ere the given year be gone.

Sweeter than a bird's song
⁠When we look for snow,—
Sweeter than a brook's song
⁠When the brook is low,—
⁠Is her voice.