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 weeps 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.