Tears of the widower, when he sees
      A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
      And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;

Which weep a loss for ever new,
      A void where heart on heart reposed;
      And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weep the comrade of my choice,
      An awful thought, a life removed,
      The human-hearted man I loved,
A Spirit, not a breathing voice.

Come, Time, and teach me, many years,
      I do not suffer in a dream;
      For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;

My fancies time to rise on wing,
      And glance about the approaching sails,
      As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.

Last modified 12 February 2010