Poetry Archives

(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)


Dear friend, forgive a wild lament
 Insanely following thy flight.
I would not cumber thine ascent
 Nor drag thee back into the night;

But the great sea-winds sigh with me,
 The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old,
And I would that I might lie with thee
 There in the grave so cold, so cold!

Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee,
 And the round skies are far and steep;
A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe,
 Pain is proud and scorns to weep.

My heart breaks if it cling about thee,
 And still breaks, if far from thine.
O drear, drear death, to live without thee,
 O sad life—to keep thee mine.