Canto XIII
Tears of the widower, when he seesA late-lost form that sleep reveals,And moves his doubtful arms, and feelsHer 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 weep 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 yearsI 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.