A Dead Friend

I.

Gone, O gentle heart and true,

  Friend of hopes foregone,

Hopes and hopeful days with you

  Gone?

  Days of old that shone

Saw what none shall see anew,

  When we gazed thereon.

Soul as clear as sunlit dew,

  Why so soon pass on,

Forth from all we loved and knew

  Gone?

II.

Friend of many a season fled,

  What may sorrow send

Toward thee now from lips that said

  'Friend'?

  Sighs and songs to blend

Praise with pain uncomforted

  Though the praise ascend?

Darkness hides no dearer head:

  Why should darkness end

Day so soon, O dear and dead

  Friend?

III.

Dear in death, thou hast thy part

  Yet in life, to cheer

Hearts that held thy gentle heart

  Dear.

  Time and chance may sear

Hope with grief, and death may part

  Hand from hand's clasp here:

Memory, blind with tears that start,

  Sees through every tear

All that made thee, as thou art,

  Dear.

IV.

True and tender, single-souled,

  What should memory do

Weeping o'er the trust we hold

  True?

  Known and loved of few,

But of these, though small their fold,

  Loved how well were you!

Change, that makes of new things old,

  Leaves one old thing new;

Love which promised truth, and told

  True.

V.

Kind as heaven, while earth's control

  Still had leave to bind

Thee, thy heart was toward man's whole

  Kind.

  Thee no shadows blind

Now:  the change of hours that roll

  Leaves thy sleep behind.

Love, that hears thy death-bell toll

  Yet, may call to mind

Scarce a soul as thy sweet soul

  Kind.

VI.

How should life, O friend, forget

  Death, whose guest art thou?

Faith responds to love's regret,

  How?

  Still, for us that bow

Sorrowing, still, though life be set,

  Shines thy bright mild brow.

Yea, though death and thou be met,

  Love may find thee now

Still, albeit we know not yet

  How.

VII.

Past as music fades, that shone

  While its life might last;

As a song-bird's shadow flown

  Past!

  Death's reverberate blast

Now for music's lord has blown

  Whom thy love held fast.

Dead thy king, and void his throne:

  Yet for grief at last

Love makes music of his own

  Past.