THREE FRIENDS OF MINE WHE I. HEN I remember them, those friends of mine, Who are no longer here, the noble three, Something, that shone in them, and made us see In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands; Perchance remembering me, who am bereft Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. II. IN Attica thy birthplace should have been, So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene And childlike joy of life, O Philhelene! Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. For thee old legends breathed historic breath; Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold! O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! III. I STAND again on the familiar shore, Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men Are busy with their trivial affairs, Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, Why art thou silent? Why shouldst thou be dead? |