Classic Poem

Tinges Corner dripped and sighed,
Clear silver in the sun,
And thin with music, like a song
Whose singing is half done.

As he and I came up that way,
Through the silver air,
The smell of wet grass hurt us so,
That we fell silent there.

Before we knew it, each from each,
Had moved a space apart,
Our eyes upon the drenched thin road,
Each with a prick at heart.

For he remembered all at once,
A woman, who was dead;
I, a dead lad. It was too much.
And not a word was said.