I

When I remember them, those friends of mine,
         Who are no longer here, the noble three,
         Who half my life were more than friends to me,
         And whose discourse was like a generous wine,
I most of all remember the divine
         Something, that shone in them, and made us see
         The archetypal man, and what might be
         The amplitude of Nature's first design.
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands;
         I cannot find them. Nothing now is left
         But a majestic memory. They meanwhile
Wander together in Elysian lands,
         Perchance remembering me, who am bereft
         Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile.

II

In Attica thy birthplace should have been,
       &  Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas
       &  Encircle in their arms the Cyclades,
       &  So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene
And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene!
       &  Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees;
       &  Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates,
       &  And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne.
For thee old legends breathed historic breath;
       &  Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea,
       &  And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold!
O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death,
       &  Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee,
       &  That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!
III

I stand again on the familiar shore,
       &  And hear the waves of the distracted sea
       &  Piteously calling and lamenting thee,
       &  And waiting restless at thy cottage door.
The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor,
       &  The willows in the meadow, and the free
       &  Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me;
       &  Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more?
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men
       &  Are busy with their trivial affairs,
       &  Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read
Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then
       &  Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears,
       &  Why art thou silent! Why shouldst thou be dead?

IV

River, that stealest with such silent pace
       &  Around the City of the Dead, where lies
       &  A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes
       &  Shall see no more in his accustomed place,
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace
       &  And say good night, for now the western skies
       &  Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise
       &  Like damps that gather on a dead man's face.
Good night! good night! as we so oft have said
       &  Beneath this roof at midnight in the days
       &  That are no more, and shall no more return.
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed;
       &  I stay a little longer, as one stays
       &  To cover up the embers that still burn.
V

The doors are all wide open; at the gate
       &  The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze,
       &  And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze
       &  Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate,
And on their margin, with sea-tides elate,
       &  The flooded Charles, as in the happier days,
       &  Writes the last letter of his name, and stays
       &  His restless steps, as if compelled to wait.
I also wait; but they will come no more,
       &  Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied
       &  The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me!
They have forgotten the pathway to my door!
       &  Something is gone from nature since they died,
       &  And summer is not summer, nor can be.