Canto XIII

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 merchants' bales,

And not the burthen that they bring.