On a Fly-leaf of Longfellow's Poems.
[written at the Asquam House in the summer of 1882.]Hushed now the sweet consoling tongue
Of him whose lyre the Muses strung;
His last low swan-song has been sung!
His last! And ours, dear friend, is near;
As clouds that rake the mountains here,
We too shall pass and disappear.
Yet howsoever changed or tost,
Not even a wreath of mist is lost,
No atom can itself exhaust.
So shall the soul's superior force
Live on and run its endless course
In God's unlimited universe.
And we, whose brief reflections seem
To fade like clouds from lake and stream,
Shall brighten in a holier beam.