10.06.2007, 10:41
O thou whose name, being alone, aloud
I utter oft, and though thou art not there,
Perceive thy pictured presence fill the air,—
O art thou from thy Heaven-home towards me bow'd?
Why vainly now poor wretch desire the shroud
And yearn to yield thy life's most bitter wane
Only to listen to thy voice again?
So Love should unto Death sink plumed & proud.
With many thoughts of many hours removed
Stand in this chamber one where erst were two:
The glass stands empty of all things it knew
Yet hath not Memory here a power approved
As balmy as the breath of her you loved
When deep between her breasts it came to you.
I utter oft, and though thou art not there,
Perceive thy pictured presence fill the air,—
O art thou from thy Heaven-home towards me bow'd?
Why vainly now poor wretch desire the shroud
And yearn to yield thy life's most bitter wane
Only to listen to thy voice again?
So Love should unto Death sink plumed & proud.
With many thoughts of many hours removed
Stand in this chamber one where erst were two:
The glass stands empty of all things it knew
Yet hath not Memory here a power approved
As balmy as the breath of her you loved
When deep between her breasts it came to you.