Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.

Sad are the shivering dank dead leaves,
      To one who a lost love from his heart unweaves,
Who dreams he has gathered his life's last sheaves,
      And must find a grave under wintry eaves,

Dead! dead 'mongst the winter's dearth,
      Gone where the shadows of all things go,
Stretch me full length in the folding earth,
      Wind me up in the drifting snow;

None of the people will heed it or say,
      "He was a singer who fainted there,
One who could leaven with fire, or sway
      Men's hearts to trembling unaware."

No one will think of the dream-days lost,
      Of the ardours fierce that were damped too soon;
Of the bud that was nipped by the morning's frost,
      And shrivelled to dust in the sun ere noon.

No one will raise me a marble, wrought
      With meaning symbol, and apt device,
To link my name with a noble thought,
      A generous deed, or a new-found voice.

My life will go on to the limitless tides,
      Leaving no trace of its current-flow,
Like a stream that starts when the tempest rides,
      And is lost again in the evening's glow.

The glories will gather and change as of yore,
      And the human currents pass panting by,
The ages will gather their wrinkles more,
      And others will sing for a day and die.

But thou, who art dearer than words can say,
      My more than all other of earth could be;
Such a joy! that the Giver I thank alway
      With a glowing heart, that He gave me thee.

I shall want thee to dream me my dream all through,
      To think me the gifted, the Poet still,
To crown me, whatever the world may do,
      Though my songs die out upon air and hill.

And, Edith, come thou in the blooming time,
      Thy world will not miss thee for just one hour;
I'd like it best when the Bells low chime,
      And the earth is full of the sunset's power;

And bend by the silently settling heap,
      While the Nature we loved, is a May all round,
While God broods low on the blue arched sweep,
      And the music-full air is a-thrill with sound.

And look in thy heart circled up in the past,
      And if I am perfectly graven there,
Unshaded by aught, save the anguish cast
      By the parting clasp, and the death despair.

Encirqued with the light of the pale regret,
      Of a "might have been" of a day-dream lent,
With a constant hope of a meeting yet,
      Oh! I shall not want for a Monument.

Last modified 4 September 2002