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| IV. |
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| I. |
| II. |
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| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
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| XXXIV. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
140
XIV.
You say the Past is dead. It cannot die:Life makes immortal what it breathes upon.
Last night, whilst I was slumbering restlessly,
Dark Forms, attired like mourners, one by one,
Drew near, and bound me with unaltered eye.
They stood a long and melancholy train:
At last I spake: ‘Ye ministers of Pain!
I know you, and your aspect stern and high.
Ye are the Phantoms of departed Hours.’
They sank; but sent, instead, a dense array
Of shadows gathered from their dreariest bowers—
Forms, faces, scenes forgotten many a day,
That seemed before my eyes to reel and swim,
Like objects seen through sounding harp-strings dim.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |