ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
Some little sound of unregarded tears
Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes,
And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs These only, these the hearkening spirit hears,
Sees only such things rise.
��Thou art too far for wings of words to follow,
Far too far off for thought or any prayer.
What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow?
Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire,
Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find.
Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies,
The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind
Are still the eluded eyes.
��Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, Not thee, but this the bound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll
I lay my hand on, and not death estranges
My spirit from communion of thy song Thc^e memories and these melodies that throng
Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal
These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold,
Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners roll'd.
�� �
