Poetry Archives

’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand
  Where he in English earth is laid,
  And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

’Tis little; but it looks in truth
  As if the quiet bones were blest
  Among familiar names to rest
And in the places of his youth.

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
  That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
  And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be,
  I, falling on his faithful heart,
  Would breathing thro’ his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me;

That dies not, but endures with pain,
  And slowly forms the the firmer mind,
  Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.