XLI.
 

But thou art turn’d to something strange,
    And I have lost the links that bound
    Thy changes; here upon the ground,
No more partaker of thy change.

Deep folly! yet that this could be–
    That I could wing my will with might
    To leap the grades of life and light,
And flash at once, my friend, to thee.

For tho’ my nature rarely yields
    To that vague fear implied in death;
    Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath,
The howlings from forgotten fields;

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor
    An inner trouble I behold,
    A spectral doubt which makes me cold,
That I shall be thy mate no more,

Tho’ following with an upward mind
    The wonders that have come to thee,
    Thro’ all the secular to-be,
But evermore a life behind.