When I crept over the hill, broken with tears, When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears, I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair. I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. When I went to thy grave, broken with tears, When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind soft in my ears, I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair. I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
Death joins hands with sorrow seeking comfort in loneliness and nature.
The anguish of needless death is present all around us even after centuries of culture, religion and the thin veneer of civilisation. Therein is the quiet relevance of this simple poem. The Comforters was written by Irish poet Dora Sigerson Shorter during the first World War. It is believed that her death was hastened by the sufferings of the war and the large numbers of the young and the innocent who laid down their precious lives. In suffering and sorrow one tends to be with one self and turns to nature.