If anybody's friend be dead, It 's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive, At such and such a time.
Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the hair, --A prank nobody knew but them, Lost, in the sepulchre.
How warm they were on such a day:
You almost feel the date, So short way off it seems; and now, They 're centuries from that.
How pleased they were at what you said;
You try to touch the smile, And dip your fingers in the frost:
When was it, can you tell, You asked the company to tea, Acquaintance, just a few, And chatted close with this grand thing That don't remember you?
Past bows and invitations, Past interview, and vow, Past what ourselves can estimate, --That makes the quick of woe!
