And When I Think
(For one just dead)
AND when I think how that dark throat of thine,Irreconcilably stilled, lies mute,A golden honey-hive robbed of its fruit,A wassail cup in which there is no wine;Thy sweet, high treble hushed that never mineAuricular delight again shall suitTo wild bird warblings, or liken to a fluteThat with wild tremors agitates the spine;Then though the legion-throated spring cry out,Though raucously the summer whirl aboutMe all her scent and color in one shoutOf pride, though autumn clamor at my ear,Or winter crackle round me, crystal-clear,While memory persists, I do not hear.