26
POEMS.
A FUNERAL MARCH.
I.
ES, all is ready now; the door and gateHave opened this last time for him, more wide
Than is their wont; no longer side by side
With us, he passes out; we follow, meek,
And weeping at his pomp, which is not pride,
And which he did not seek.
We cannot speak,
Because we loved him so; we hesitate,
And cling and linger and in vain belate.
Their feet who bear him.
Slow, slow, slow,
With every fibre holding back, we go;
And cruel hands, while we are near,
And weep afresh to hear,
Have shut the door and shut the gate.
II.
The air is full of shapes
We do not see, but feel;
Ghosts which no death escapes.
No sepulchre can seal;
Ghosts of forgotten things of joy and grief;
And ghosts of things which never were,
But promised him to be: they may defer
Their pledges now; his unbelief
We do not see, but feel;
Ghosts which no death escapes.
No sepulchre can seal;
Ghosts of forgotten things of joy and grief;
And ghosts of things which never were,
But promised him to be: they may defer
Their pledges now; his unbelief
