Egypt :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is no need to build a bridge of verse,
To span our separation; no dark curse
Of sundering waters that between us flow
Can fright our souls from passing to and fro.

You sit and talk to me, with falling night,
You come and welcome me, with lifting light;
All through the day, let good or ill betide,
You move to me or feel me by your side.

We have so many places where we meet;
Sometimes a garden, with an arboured seat,

Where sing the birds, in shelter from the sun,
And silver floods of Thames or Arno run:

Or by that rhododendron-shaded rill
Where the dear spirit of my mother still
Wanders to welcome me, but vainly waits;
Against me now are locked the lichened gates.

Or else we linger by the Lake that steeps
The shadow of grey Chillon in her deeps,
Where white, remote, the Dents du Midi rise,
To draw from weary Earth our weary eyes.

So far I wrote; then Death, who snatched my pen,
Cried, “Write his epitaph; beyond Earth's rim
He voyages.” I said, “He goes where men
Have gone before; and I shall go to him.”