IT hardly seems that he is dead, <br /> So strange it is that we are here <br />Beneath this great blue shell of sky <br /> With apple-bloom and pear: <br />It scarce seems true that we can note <br /> The bursting rosebud’s edge of flame, <br />Or watch the blackbird’s swelling throat <br /> While he is but a name. <br /> <br />No more the chaffinch at his step <br /> Pipes suddenly her shrill surprise, <br />For in an ecstasy of sleep <br /> Unconsciously he lies, <br />Not knowing that the sweet brown lark <br /> From off her bosom’s feathery lace <br />Shakes down the dewdrop in her flight <br /> To fall upon his face.<br /><br />Norman Rowland Gale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dead-friend-2/
