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.
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.
yet, evín yet, if this might be,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would breathing throí his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me;
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.