THE NEVERMORE.
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through my soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
THE PORTRAIT.
Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.
A night of tears! for the gusty rain
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,
With her face all white and wet:
Nobody with me, my watch to keep,
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.
Nobody else, in the country place
All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,
Who confessed her when she died.