XCI

When this warm hand is cold in death, and all
The wide world over thou may'st seek in vain
For any touch to wake the selfsame strain
As the stiff fingers, still beneath my pall;
Better and worse may answer to thy call,
But never upon earth shall sound again
Just the same cries of passion, joy, and pain
As these which now upon thy senses fall.
Ah! then I wonder if thine eyes will look
Hither and thither, seeking something fled,
In whose blank place no future gain can tread;
Some page erased from a famillar book,
Some change of feature in a secret nook,
Something departed, something with the dead?