'TIS we who live that vagrants are; the dead Are not poor outcasts from our love, but rather The seeking souls who earlier have sped To where friends gather. Just every little while, one slips away; Almost we hear their greeting from those others: Our loss must make for them a happy day, Brothers to brothers! We who remain draw closer each to each; We smile as best we may with each to-morrow; But oh, our spirits know there is no speech To tell our sorrow! Not theirs the grief, we say, not theirs the grief; Our ranks grow thin, while theirs increase for ever: No hearth a-cold, no falling of the leaf, No friends that sever. Until we long to be of their good cheer; Oh, with what heartfelt, wistful yearning To join that company, select and dear, The home-returning! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ADMONITION [TO A TRAVELLER] by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 62. FAREWELL TO JULIET (14) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT FISHING by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIA MEETING by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A LOVER, ON AN ACCIDENT NECESSITATING DEPARTURE, CONSULTS WITH REASON by THOMAS CAREW MY MOTHER by WILLIAM LAWRENCE CHITTENDEN THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL; AN ALLEGORY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |