The Dead
How shall the living be comforted for the dead
When they are gone, and nothing’s left behind
But a vague music of the words they said
And a fast-fading image in the mind?
Let no forgetting sully that dim grace;
Our heart’s infirmity is too easily won
To set a new love in the old love’s place
And seek fresh vanity under the sun.
Time brings to us at last, as night the stars,
The starry silence of eternity:
For there is no discharge in our long wars,
Nor balm for wounds, nor love’s security.
Be patient to the end, and you shall sleep
Pillowed on heartsease and forget to weep.
/ Contents, p. 3