Farewell, farewell, O noble heart! I dreamed That time nor death could from my side divorce Thy fair young life, beside whose pure bright course My earthly nature stationary seemed: Yet, by companionship, direction took And progress, as the bank runs with the brook; O round that mould which all thy mortal hath, Our children's, and about my own sere path, May these dim thoughts not fall as dry and vain But fruitful as March dust or April rain, Forerun the green, foretell the perfect day Of restoration, when in fields divine, And walking as of old, thy hand in mine, By the still waters we may softly stray. |