 | Poems of many years (1844) |  |
184
ON THE DEATH OF ------
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see,
For a part of myself has lapsed away
From Time to Eternity.
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see,
For a part of myself has lapsed away
From Time to Eternity.
I have lost a thought that many a year
Was most familiar food
To my inmost mind, by night or day,
In merry or plaintive mood;
I have lost a hope, that many a year
Looked far on a gleaming way,
When the walls of Life were closing round,
And the sky was sombre grey.
Was most familiar food
To my inmost mind, by night or day,
In merry or plaintive mood;
I have lost a hope, that many a year
Looked far on a gleaming way,
When the walls of Life were closing round,
And the sky was sombre grey.
For long, too long, in distant climes
My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men;
But lonelily in distant climes
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
O' the friend it had left at home.
My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men;
185
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
O' the friend it had left at home.
And now I was close to my native shores,
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide:
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide:
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
I thought, how should I see him first,
How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,—upon the stair,—
At the corner of the street?
I thought, where should I hear him first,
How catch his greeting tone,—
And thus I went up to his door,
And they told me he was gone!
How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,—upon the stair,—
At the corner of the street?
I thought, where should I hear him first,
How catch his greeting tone,—
And thus I went up to his door,
And they told me he was gone!
Oh! what is Life but a sum of love,
And Death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!
And now how mighty a sum of love
Is lost for ever to me . . . . . .
. . . No, I'm not what I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see.
And Death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!
186
Is lost for ever to me . . . . . .
. . . No, I'm not what I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see.
| Poems of many years (1844) | |