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.
