Classic Poem

Whatever solace loss can draw from Art
I drew from out the picture in my hand,
Then fancied that the memory in my heart
Surpassed the finest artist in the land.

I looked within, and there the image stirred,
Touched with the tint of life and full of soul;
The lips just parting with a wonted word,
As near my cheek the happy vision stole,

But on a sudden, darkness made it naught,
Leaving me lonely as a lonely isle,
And on the turbid, rapid tide of thought
There flitted not the sparkle of his smile.

“Ah me!” said I, “must even Memory prove
Too weak to comfort Love as she doth crave?
The vivid sight and sense of him I love—
Must these be also given to the grave?”

And then I thought of Aphrodite's mate,
(How weak in wishing may the poor heart be!)
And wished my lost might have Adonis' fate,
And for a season be restored to me.

Lo! was he not? For in the deep of night
He lived again and blessed me in a dream,
Without one trace of Death's despoiling might:
Just as of old did my belovèd seem.

The ruddy cheek, the full and manly form—
How marvellous that I should find them there,
And feel life's current in caresses warm,
Though in a land more subtile than the air!

I shrank if any called him dead before;—
Oh wondrous meeting of those eyes with mine!
I now will think of him as dead no more,
Since in my dreams their living light can shine.