 | Idyls of Norway and other poems |  |
8
ELEGY ON A. G. L.
(December 15, 1876.)
I.
I stood at morn, amid tempestuous strifeOf wintry winds, and saw or seemed to see,
All like a dim and cruel pageantry,
Thy gentle presence pass from out my life.
And voices wild and strange rose to the skies,—
The sounds of dolorous greetings, tear-choked sighs
Rang like a quivering echo through my soul,
And back into my solitude I stole;
For then the measure of my grief was rise.
They say, sweet friend, that in that realm enchanted
Where thou hast fled,—upon that unknown shore,
Amid unfading day thy life is planted
To bloom in health and joy forevermore.
But ah, the very thought is fraught with dread;
To me, sweet friend, to me thou still art dead!
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II.
At thy deserted chamber long I stood,What time the wintry daylight westward waned.
There desolation chill, relentless reigned,
And thronging memories the pang renewed.
For all bore here the impress of thy thought,—
A subtle fragrance from thy being caught.
For evermore some essence fugitive
Of thy young voice will linger here and live
About this frame,—these sprigs of briar-wood.
Ah, tell me not then, other friends are left!
It gives but keenness to the sting of grief;
For sadder than all else to hearts bereft
Is the cold vision of time's sure relief.
To-day, O friend, I rather would foresee
A life of sorrow consecrate to thee!
III.
Thine was a spirit, tender, rich, and rare,And purer than the stainless Northland snow;
Still womanly, whose sympathetic glow
Ennobled all that breathed its finer air.
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I cannot tell thee now, though mournfully
I ponder on the riddles dark that meet
My gaze where'er I turn. Thy presence sweet
Still through long years of vigil I may share.
For if from that enchanted spirit-land
Thy healthful thought into my soul may shine
(E'en though thy voice be still, and cold thy hand),
To lift my life and make it pure as thine;
Then, though thy place on earth a void must be,
Beloved friend, thou art not dead to me!
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