Two years ago, this day, he died;
In silence to the grave he stole;
To many friends their joy and pride,—
To me the brother of my soul.
Then died their hopes and were not seen,
But still our love, it seems to me,
Survives, though something hangs between,—
A haze—a dim perplexity!
Perplexity that gathers still
Veil over veil, fold upon fold!
Like mists of rain about a lonely hill
Round me that cloud contracts or is unrolled.
Come often Intimations, as it were,
He still were somewhere dwelling on the earth;
Some look that of his beauty hath a share,
Some laugh that hath a sound of his delicious mirth!
ii.
iii.