THREE gifts the Dying left me, -- AEschylus, And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock Chiming the gradual hours out like a flock Of stars whose motion is melodious. The books were those I used to read from, thus Assisting my dear teacher's soul to unlock The darkness of his eyes; now, mine they mock, Blinded in turn by tears; now, murmurous Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone Intoning from these leaves the Grecian phrase, Return and choke my utterance. Books, lie down In silence on the shelf there, within gaze; And thou, clock, striking the hour's pulses on, Chime in the day which ends these parting-days! |