| |
| WHEN I heard you were dead, | |
| I had little more than a startled word to give; | |
| We had been too long apart, | |
| And all the years I had been cold to you. | |
| But the pity and pain of your leave-taking filled me with slow resentment. | 5 |
| |
| Once I would have cared to make a song | |
| About a flower you gave me— | |
| An old rose shut in a book that is lost. | |
| |
| I was cruel to you, | |
| And you had nothing better from the rest of the world; | 10 |
| That is what made me angry. | |
| |
| Well, we can love the dead in our own way | |
| And not hurt them; | |
| We can be very tender, knowing well | |
| They will not come back to us. | 15 |
| |
| I have thoughts for you now, | |
| I have words of bereavement; | |
| I see how lovely and rare you were | |
| And cry out after you. | |
| |
| Where are you now, whom I played with on the sands when we both were young? | 20 |
| I remember your girl’s body stocky and strong, | |
| Your little hard hand-clasp, | |
| Your truthful eyes, | |
| Your corn-pale dancing hair | |
| Growing low on your small forehead. | 25 |
| I remember you, wet from the surf, catching ball like a rough boy. | |
| |
| I know death has you; | |
| That very likely you were glad to die, | |
| Going out lonely and in bitterness, | |
| With your dreams all crunched to black dust … | 30 |
| Too strong for life, too honest, too friendly and too tender. | |
| |
| I hope, if the grave has not conspired to hold you, | |
| You have forgotten about all that. | |
| I hope, if I could come to an old sea-beach white and sunny, | |
| Where spirits immortally human played, | 35 |
| I would find you there, O gray eyes—the laughing comrade of boys! | |
| |
