A BOOK OF SONNETS

THREE FRIENDS OF MINE

WHE

I.

HEN 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 Philhelene!

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?