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...CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH NOCTURNAL SKETCH; BLANK VERSE IN RHYME by THOMAS HOOD BARBARA FRIETCHIE [SEPTEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER LOVES ADVENTURE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |