“Tears of the widower, when he sees, A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weep the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchant’s bales, And not the burden that they bring.” CANTO XVIII. “’Tis well, ’tis something, we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps, or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me: That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again.” CANTO LIX. “If, in thy second state sublime, Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch’d with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man; I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.” CANTO CXXVII. “Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near, in woe or weal; O loved the most when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown, human, divine! Sweet human hand and lips and eye, Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever, mine! Strange friend, past, present and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold I dream a dream of good And mingle all the world with thee.” CANTO CXXVIII. “Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: