Your slighted weakness
Adds to the strength of my regret!
You'd not the art--you never had
For good or bad -
To make men see how sweet your meaning,
Which, visible, had charmed them glad.
You would, by words inept let fall,
Offend them all,
Even if they saw your warm devotion
Would hold your life's blood at their call.
You lacked the eye to understand
Those friends offhand
Whose mode was crude, though whose dim purport
Outpriced the courtesies of the bland.
I am now the only being who
Remembers you
It may be. What a waste that Nature
Grudged soul so dear the art its due!
SHE, I, AND THEY
I was sitting,
She was knitting,
And the portraits of our fore-folk hung around;
When there struck on us a sigh;
"Ah--what is that?" said I:
"Was it not you?" said she. "A sigh did sound."
I had not breathed it,
Nor the night-wind heaved it,
And how it came to us we could not guess;
And we looked up at each face
Framed and glazed there in its place,
Still hearkening; but thenceforth was silentness.
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