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236

A DEATH

To Reginald Brinton.
The palms, the desert, the enchaunted East,
Full of fire, burning with an ancient heat:
Those were my dreams of old; now dreams have ceased,
The heart of that old world I hear not beat.
The joy, the calmness, of my soul lie there:
And death hath hallowed all, and made it clear.
We are alone, the loving dead and I:
In a still loneliness and peace profound,
Beside forgetful waters, the dead lie;
By solemn laws to one calm habit bound.
And through the sunlight, and the enthralling heat,
I too am there: and find the silence sweet.

237

Cities and great wastes of the ancient East!
I dwell with you, where you have buried him.
Splendid, the way of death: your spears released
His soul; his eyes saw England, and fell dim.
Now, under the vast silence, and the palm,
I trust him to your loneliness and calm.
Praise to the dead! Love to the dead! devotion
Be to the true and unforgetting dead!
Their measureless and stilly sleep, no motion
Stirs, but the strewing of each comer's bed.
Give lilies! pour the balm! Now all is over:
Death will the rest provide for his new lover.
1889.