XXI
If anybody’s friend be dead,It ‘s sharpest of the themeThe thinking how they walked alive,At such and such a time.
Their costume, of a Sunday,Some manner of the hair,—A prank nobody knew but them,Lost, in the sepulchre.
How warm they were on such a day:You almost feel the date,So short way off it seems; and now,They ‘re centuries from that.
How pleased they were at what you said;You try to touch the smile,And dip your fingers in the frost:When was it, can you tell,
You asked the company to tea,Acquaintance, just a few,And chatted close with this grand thingThat don’t remember you?
Past bows and invitations,Past interview, and vow,Past what ourselves can estimate,—That makes the quick of woe!