Herbert Asquith

The Fallen Poet

NOW that the soul has left its throne
   Behind your mortal eyes,
And light, and colour and sound are gone
   From the body’s palaces:
Still in his wood the blackbird calls,
   But there is one too few to hear:
And one too few to watch the trout
   Swim through the music of the weir.
 
And once I dreamt that you were gone,
   As dust upon the wave ;
Or, as a dropp in some deep well,
   That none could sort or save.
But falling low between the stars,
   So soon as I had such a fear,
At dusk and dawn a whisper came:
   'The dead are near: the dead are near.
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