The Fallen Poet

NOW that the soul has left its throne Behind your mortal eyes, And light, and colour and sound are gone From the body's palaces : Still in his wood the blackbird calls, But there is one too few to hear : And one too few to watch the trout Swim through the music of the weir. And once I dreamt that you were gone, As dust upon the wave ; Or, as a dropp in some deep well, That none could sort or save. But falling low between the stars, So soon as I had such a fear, At dusk and dawn a whisper came : 'The dead are near: the dead are near.