IT is not for what He would be to me now, If he still were here, that I mourn him so: It is for the thought of a broken vow, And for what he was to me long ago. Strange, while he lived and moved upon earth, Though I would not, and could not, have seen him again, His being to me had an infinite worth, And the void of his loss is an infinite pain. I had but to utter his name, and my youth Rose up in my soul, and my blood grew warm; And I hardly remembered the broken truth, And I wholly remembered the ancient charm. I watched the' unfolding scenes of his life, From' the lonely retreat where my heart reposed; 'Twas a magical drama -- a fabulous strife; Now' the curtain has fallen, the volume is closed. The sense of my very self grows dim, With nothing but Self either here or beyond; That Self which would have been lost in him, Had he only died ere he broke the bond. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BATTLE HYMN OF THE RUSSIAN REPUBLIC by LOUIS UNTERMEYER LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH (OWEN ROE) O'NEIL by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK THE ARMADA; A FRAGMENT by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 1: 8. DEPARTURE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE |