Poems in many lands :: :: University of Virginia Library

And he is gone!—like strain of viols parted—
Back to the infinite from whence he came,
And we sit here, bereft and weary hearted,
New songs may wake, but not again the same.

Our hearts were lutes, whereon he used to play,
Now evermore is silence on that key,
And thought grows chilly like a sunless day
That greys the ripple on the haggard sea.

Those lips were cold that lingering we kissed,
There came no pressure from the old true hand,
A little while and through the twilight mist
We scarce shall trace his footprints in the sand.

II.

This was the end love made,—the hard-drawn breath,
The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;
And then for us, the great unanswered fear,
Will love live on,—the other side of death?

Only a year, and I had hoped to spend
A life of pleasant communing, to be
A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,
We never thought that love had such an end.

This was the end love made, for our delight,
For one sweet year he cannot take away;—
Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,
Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,
And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,
Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.

III.

He had the poet's eyes,
—Sing to him sleeping,—
Sweet grace of low replies,
—Why are we weeping?

He had the gentle ways,
—Fair dreams befall him!—
Beauty through all his days,
—Then why recall him?—

That which in him was fair
Still shall be ours:
Yet, yet my heart lies there
Under the flowers.