Classic Poem

A RE mine the empty eyes
That stare toward the little new grave on the beautiful burial-hill?
Was mine the last wet kiss that lies
Shut up in his coffin, kissing him still,
Kissing him still?

Is mine the hollow room?
Was it not cruel to take all the pretty small furniture, say? —
The fairy pictures and heaps of bloom,
And music of mock-harps — so far away,
So far away?

Is mine the hidden face
That one night's sudden dread watching has thinn'd and faded so much? —
Mine the lonesome hands through bitter space,
Yearning for something they never can touch,
Never can touch?

Is mine the passionate pain
That will hearken the trembling wind and feel the wide still snow,
And sob at night with the sobbing rain,
And only feel that I can not know,
I can not know?

Was mine that lovely child?
Did he drop from my heart and go where the Powers of the Dust can destroy?
Can I see the very way he smiled — —
" Let God keep his angels " ? Do I want my boy —
I want my boy?

Is he gone from his air,
From his sun, from his voice, his motion, his mother, his world, and his skies,
From the unshorn light in his sweet hair,
From the elusion of his butterflies,
His butterflies?

If not, why let me go
Where another sorrow is watching a small, cold bed alone,
And whisper now I have loved her so,
That to save her darling I gave my own,
I gave my own!

Ah! if I learn'd her part,
And my dark fancies but play'd in despair like tragedy queens,
Then my only audience was my heart,
And my tears, that were tears, were behind the scenes,
Behind the scenes.