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Poem
Is it possible that I may strive to think
Of what has never been
Or that such would raise me from where I sink
And wipe my sorrow clean
Day and time pass but memory remains
The archive of our knowledge and our pains
Against this bruised part of me your face press
Little nephew, and my love finds no rest

Your mother says, as if the dead still grow
Out of the dust of time,
You would be thirty five, could you but know
This side of life sublime
But I shall never see you stand again
Beside the gate, calling my son to ride
With you, or play like swallows in the rain
His brother came though to be by your side

But none can tell what compose that world yet
Nor how my flesh keeps faith
With me, if may leave its house at my death
Leave close its broken gate
And free from time and space reclaim being
In some place where spirit returns longing
For earth within the bars of time, for old
Memories that round eternity roll

Yet without the pulse of time's cycling pall
The ebb and flow that age
The lost past living only through recall
The shadow on the stage
In which we believe, but ne'er apprehend
The fading light and the shift of scene again
The laws we write as candles in the night
A wind broken dream intimating sight

Bobby, Bobby, I have no final why
Or reason for my tears
The deeper things that make the oceans sigh
Through veils of misty years
As if some deeper wisdom unengaged
Ponders something in our frail sorrow caged
And yet can find no wing except this grief
To weep our life and renders some relief.

I miss you, little nephew, and remain still
A fan, though no more you
Play the ball and let men shout at their will
Or sing melodies blue
About the earth, and man's injustice to man
Nor can I listen the telling of each plan
You had, and against this void now I scream
This senseless violation of our dream!
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