To a Dead Friend
It is as if a silver chordWere suddenly grown mute,And life’s song with its rhythm warredAgainst a silver lute.
It is as if a silence fellWhere bides the garnered sheaf,And voices murmuring, “It is well,”Are stifled by our grief.
It is as if the gloom of nightHad hid a summer’s day,And willows, sighing at their plight,Bent low beside the way.
For he was part of all the bestThat Nature loves and gives,And ever more on Memory’s breastHe lies and laughs and lives.