Classic Poem

I stood, methought, in some lone place,—
A fallen city, at whose base
That summer noon the shining sea
Made all soft sounds perpetually;
And, as it swelled, its liquid fall
Scarce lifted the weeds on the harbor-wall:
And the little waves, all one by one,
Far out in furrows green did run,
And then lay down and sparkled in the sun!
There was no shade, no leafy tree,
Yet waited I by that fair sea,
And watched the ocean-water fill
With its clear self, and at its will,
The broken harbor's ample round,
Without a wave and without a sound!
So men have watched their friends for hours,
Filling with silent love,
While dreams fall on them both in showers,
Like starlights from above;
Till the bright waters, as they rise,
Mount and run over at the eyes.
Oh! who that in youth's morning light
With sails full-set and songs did ride
Into love's harbor with the tide,
Hath dreamed that it would ebb at night?

Through the long hours of noon I stood
Alone in that sunny solitude.
Not a voice was in the weed-grown way
Not a ship was on the wave,
The sea was by itself all day,
And the streets were like a grave,
All things were still as they could be,
The sand, the city, and the sea!
I lingered there—for on my breast
A weight of weary sorrow pressed;
My soul, like a mourner, low did bend
Over the memory of my dead friend.
Yet there is somewhat in the tear
Of deep affliction's willing sadness
To the lone heart more kind and dear
Than the strong smile of health and gladness;
And it is better, for our love's sake, they
We love the best should soonest go away.

I thought of him, as though he were by,
With his dark bright hair, and his darker eye,
And his face alive with chivalry,
Of his broad white brow with a slender vein,
And his words like drops of summer rain,
Soft as the voice of a timid maiden,
Ever with his own brave language laden.
I have hung on his words, so sweet and rare.
Like a knight in his lady's bower,
With his voice in my ears, like a haunting air,
For many a dreaming hour.
The eloquent smile that ever hung
O'er his mouth, like a sunny wreath,
Grew lovelier on his lips, and clung
Ten times more glorious after death.
There is a spell on his silent tongue,
As when a poet dies
And the spirits bind his lyre unstrung
To the bier whereon he lies.
I saw thy beautiful limbs all bare,
And thy new-made grave looked cold,
And I grudged it sadly to the mould
To lie so long on thy glossy hair!
Minstrel! thy spirit was set on fire
At the fount of ancient days,
And therefore wert thou lifted higher,
To where that fountain plays.
Sacred and pure, the awful flame
About thy youth and health did roll,
Till thy fair vest of earth became
A sacrifice unto thy soul.
Like an eagle, up in the heavens bare,
Wild with the draughts of his mountain air,
The heights of lone thought beheld thee die
In the fire of thine own free poetry!