He trod the earth but yesterday, <br />And now he treads the stars. <br />He left us in the April time <br />He praised so often in his rhyme, <br />He left the singing and the lyre and went his way. <br /> <br />He drew new music from our tongue, <br />A music subtly wrought, <br />And moulded words to his desire, <br />As wind doth mould a wave of fire; <br />From strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung. <br /> <br />I think the singing understands <br />That he who sang is still, <br />And Iseult cries that he is dead, -- <br />Does not Dolores bow her head <br />And Fragoletta weep and wring her little hands? <br /> <br />New singing now the singer hears <br />To lyre and lute and harp; <br />Catullus waits to welcome him, <br />And thro' the twilight sweet and dim, <br />Sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears.<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-swinburne/
