 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
227
AFTERWARDS
It cannot be that my friend is dead
And never a word to me;
He would have stept in dreams to my bed,
I should have seen him stand at my feet,
Crowned in glory and smiling sweet,
Bidding me rise and see.
And never a word to me;
He would have stept in dreams to my bed,
I should have seen him stand at my feet,
Crowned in glory and smiling sweet,
Bidding me rise and see.
Yesterday, when the board was bright,
Chilly the mist outside,
Merry it seemed in the taper's light;
Then, it was then he strove with death,
Swooned and shivered and cried for breath,
Lying alone he died.
Chilly the mist outside,
Merry it seemed in the taper's light;
Then, it was then he strove with death,
Swooned and shivered and cried for breath,
Lying alone he died.
While I jested, no answer came
Back from the doors of doom,
Voices crying a phantom name;
No furious gust the windows shook,
No secret sense of a spectral look
Silenced the clamorous room.
Back from the doors of doom,
Voices crying a phantom name;
No furious gust the windows shook,
No secret sense of a spectral look
Silenced the clamorous room.
228
Nay, in the night-time, ere I slept,
I had no fears for him,
Slowly the stillness round me crept,
Only the hand of the warm spring rain
Whispered soft at the window-pane,
Only the skies were dim.
I had no fears for him,
Slowly the stillness round me crept,
Only the hand of the warm spring rain
Whispered soft at the window-pane,
Only the skies were dim.
Now in the infinite realm of light,
Fresh from his new-found rest,
Steeped in delicate sound and sight,
Hourly he wanders, seeing clear
All that the tired soul dreams of here,
All that the heart deems best.
Fresh from his new-found rest,
Steeped in delicate sound and sight,
Hourly he wanders, seeing clear
All that the tired soul dreams of here,
All that the heart deems best.
See, as a town-bred child that you lead
Over the silver sands,
Gathers the ribbons of glossy weed,
Black-horned sea-egg and twisted shell,
Rare to handle and briny to smell,
Filling his wasted hands;—
Over the silver sands,
Gathers the ribbons of glossy weed,
Black-horned sea-egg and twisted shell,
Rare to handle and briny to smell,
Filling his wasted hands;—
Who would bid him suspend his play,
Silence his rapturous glee?
Bid him think of the fallen day
Over the city, where, vexed and dim,
Toils his father, who thinks of him,
Saying, “he thinks of me”?
Silence his rapturous glee?
Bid him think of the fallen day
Over the city, where, vexed and dim,
Toils his father, who thinks of him,
Saying, “he thinks of me”?
229
Gladden my restless darling's dreams,
Wonder and wealth of the sea!
Steep his soul in your gracious gleams!
Yet, as he stepped to the silence vast,
Oh, I had thought that just as he passed
He would have thought of me.
Wonder and wealth of the sea!
Steep his soul in your gracious gleams!
Yet, as he stepped to the silence vast,
Oh, I had thought that just as he passed
He would have thought of me.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |