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Is it fancy also,

That the light which falls so
Faintly upon the stony street below me as I write,

Near tall mountains passes

Thro' churchyard weeds and grasses,

Barely a mower's mile away from that small bridge, tonight?

And, where you are lying,—

Grass and flowers above you

Is mingled with your sleeping face, as calm as the

hearts that love you?


Poet gentle-hearted,

Are you then departed,

And have you ceased to dream the dream we loved of

old so well?

Has the deeply-cherish'd

Aspiration perish'd,

And are you happy, David, in that heaven where you



you found the secret

We, so wildly, sought for,

Is your young soul enswathed, at last, in the singing

robes you fought for?


In some heaven star-lighted,

Are you now united

Unto the poet-spirits that you loved, of English race? Is Chatterton still dreaming?

And, to give it stately seeming,

Has the music of his last strong song passed into

Keats's face ?

Is Wordsworth there? and Spenser ?

Beyond the grave's black portals,

Can the grand eye of Milton see the glory he sang to



You at least could teach me,

Could your low voice reach me,

Where I sit and copy out for men my soul's strange speech,

Whether it be bootless,

Profitless, and fruitless,

The weary aching upward strife to heights we cannot


The fame we seek in sorrow,

The agony we forego not,

The haunting singing sense that makes us climb

whither we know not.


Must it last for ever,

The passionate endeavour,

Ay, have you, there in heaven, hearts to throb and

still aspire?

In the life

you know now,

Render'd white as snow now,

Do fresher glory-heights arise, and beckon higher

higher ?

Are you dreaming, dreaming,

Is your soul still roaming,

Still gazing upward as we gazed, of old in the autumn



Lo, the book I hold here,

In the city cold here!

I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as


weary moments!

Lo, the
Lo, the icy comments!

And lo, pale Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to


Has the strife no ending?

Has the song no meaning?

Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or




Upward my face I turn to you,

I long for you, I yearn to you,

The pallid moonlight trances me to utt'rance wild and


It is not that I mourn you,

To mourn you were to scorn you,

For you are one step nearer to the beauty singers


But I want, and cannot see you,

I seek and cannot find


And, see! I touch the book of songs you tenderly left

behind you!


Ay me! I bend above it,

With tearful eyes, and love it,

With gentle hand I touch the leaves, but cannot find

you there!

Mine eyes are haunted only

By that gloaming sweetly lonely,

The shadows on the mossy bridge, the glamour in the


I touch the leaves, and only

See the glory they retain not—

The moon that is a lamp to Hope, who glorifies what

we gain not!

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