The Dead Poet.

The poet’s little span is done.1
The poet’s work on earth goes on. 2
The hand that strikes the ringing chords ; 3
The thought that clothes itself in words, 4
That chimes with every varying mood,5
That gives a friend to solitude ;6
In flash or fire, in smiles or tears, 7
Wakes echoes for all coming years.8
The poet’s hand and heart are dust.9
The poet’s grave lies green and hushed. 10
His music lives, and soars, and swells, 11
And shapes the natures where it dwells, 12
Blends with their grief, refines their mirth, 13
Gives of its own pure grace to earth,14
Shrines dreams and fancies, and for love, 15
Finds words to speak and strength to prove.16
Oh, many a heart struck desolate,17
And many a life, by bitter fate18
Left dry and dull, and many a soul, 19
Chafing ’gainst circumstance’ control, 20
In fret and doubt, the surest balm21
Finds in the poet’s golden calm.22
Their blessing whom his power has blest, 23
Haloes the poet’s tranquil rest.24