’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.