Something is dead . . . <br />The grace of sunset solitudes, the march <br />Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power <br />Of round on round of shining soldier-stars <br />Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun - <br />Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable - <br />The multitudinous friendliness of the sea, <br />Possess no more--no more. <br /> <br />Something is dead . . . <br />The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks <br />And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs, <br />His melancholy close and closer yet <br />Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring <br />That made the heart a centre of miracles <br />Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours <br />Arise no more--no more. <br /> <br />Something is dead . . . <br />'Tis time to creep in close about the fire <br />And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream <br />Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice <br />In the young life that round us leaps and laughs, <br />A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride <br />Of God's best gift that to us twain returns, <br />Dear Heart, no more--no more.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prologue-23/
