It is not long since last I clasp'd thy hand,
And heard thy speech, so rich in least pretense,
So kindly-wise, that all might understand;
And now the Unseen Hand hath snatch'd thee hence.
And there thou liest, still and pale and cold;
No more thy well-worn palette, loved so much,
Shall blossom into color, as of old;
No more the canvas glow beneath thy touch.
'Tis hard to think that I no more shall greet
Thy friendly presence here on earth, and yet
The more than hope that we shall elsewhere meet
Softens my sad and most sincere regret.