To a Dead Poet

I knew not if to laugh or weep;

   They sat and talked of you—

"'Twas here he sat; 'twas this he said!

   'Twas that he used to do.

"Here is the book wherein he read,

   The room wherein he dwelt;

And he" (they said) "was such a man,

   Such things he thought and felt."

I sat and sat, I did not stir;

   They talked and talked away.

I was as mute as any stone,

   I had no word to say.

They talked and talked; like to a stone

   My heart grew in my breast—

I, who had never seen your face

   Perhaps I knew you best.