< Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf
Your loss is rarer; for this star
I knew your brother: his mute dust
I have not looked upon you nigh,
And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
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160
POEMS.
vii.
Rose with you thro' a little arc
Of heaven, nor having wandered far,
Shot on the sudden into dark.
viii.
I honour and his living worth:
A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.
ix.
Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep.
Great Nature is more wise than I:
I will not tell you not to weep.
x.
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain,
I will not even preach to you,
"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."
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