R. W. S.
Dear brother,—for I hold thee living still,
Where'er thou art amid the radiant spheres,—
Standing upon the threshold of thy years,
Thou didst my noblest dream of man fulfil.
A passion for all good; a scorn of ill;
A beauty perfect as the Belvidere's;
A heart as tender as a woman's tears;
And all subordinate to a resolute will.
Such is the dream of thee I still hold dear:
Such do I think thee now, though long unseen.
Hast thou forgotten since thou'rt gone away?
Or may I still believe that thou art near,
Clasp hands across the years that lie between,
And hold the past a living thing to-day?
Where'er thou art amid the radiant spheres,—
Standing upon the threshold of thy years,
Thou didst my noblest dream of man fulfil.
A passion for all good; a scorn of ill;
A beauty perfect as the Belvidere's;
A heart as tender as a woman's tears;
And all subordinate to a resolute will.
Such is the dream of thee I still hold dear:
Such do I think thee now, though long unseen.
Hast thou forgotten since thou'rt gone away?
Or may I still believe that thou art near,
Clasp hands across the years that lie between,
And hold the past a living thing to-day?
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