Best Famous Unsaid Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Unsaid poems. This is a select list of the best famous Unsaid poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Unsaid poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of unsaid poems.

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• All Famous Unsaid Poems

Written by Adrienne Rich | Cartographies of Silence 1. A conversation begins with a lie. and each speaker of the so-called common language feels the ice-floe split, the drift apart as if powerless, as if up against a force of nature A poem can being with a lie. And be torn up. A conversation has other laws recharges itself with its own false energy, Cannot be torn up. Infiltrates our blood. Repeats itself. Inscribes with its unreturning stylus the isolation it denies. 2. The classical music station playing hour upon hour in the apartment the picking up and picking up and again picking up the telephone The syllables uttering the old script over and over The loneliness of the liar living in the formal network of the lie twisting the dials to drown the terror beneath the unsaid word 3. The technology of silence The rituals, etiquette the blurring of terms silence not absence of words or music or even raw sounds Silence can be a plan rigorously executed the blueprint of a life It is a presence it has a history a form Do not confuse it with any kind of absence 4. How calm, how inoffensive these words begin to seem to me though begun in grief and anger Can I break through this film of the abstract without wounding myself or you there is enough pain here This is why the classical of the jazz music station plays? to give a ground of meaning to our pain? 5. The silence strips bare: In Dreyer's Passion of Joan Falconetti's face, hair shorn, a great geography mutely surveyed by the camera If there were a poetry where this could happen not as blank space or as words stretched like skin over meaningsof a night through which two people have talked till dawn. 6. The scream of an illegitimate voice It has ceased to hear itself, therefore it asks itself How do I exist? This was the silence I wanted to break in you I had questions but you would not answer I had answers but you could not use them The is useless to you and perhaps to others 7. It was an old theme even for me: Language cannot do everything- chalk it on the walls where the dead poets lie in their mausoleums If at the will of the poet the poem could turn into a thing a granite flank laid bare, a lifted head alight with dew If it could simply look you in the face with naked eyeballs, not letting you turn till you, and I who long to make this thing, were finally clarified together in its stare 8. No. Let me have this dust, these pale clouds dourly lingering, these words moving with ferocious accuracy like the blind child's fingers or the newborn infant's mouth violent with hunger No one can give me, I have long ago taken this method whether of bran pouring from the loose-woven sack or of the bunsen-flame turned low and blue If from time to time I envy the pure annunciation to the eye the visio beatifica if from time to time I long to turn like the Eleusinian hierophant holding up a single ear of grain for the return to the concrete and everlasting world what in fact I keep choosing are these words, these whispers, conversations from which time after time the truth breaks moist and green.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Portrait of a Lady Thou hast committed— Fornication: but that was in another country, And besides, the wench is dead. The Jew of Malta. I AMONG the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do— With “I have saved this afternoon for you”; And four wax candles in the darkened room, Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and fingertips. “So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should be resurrected only among friends Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.” —And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins. “You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, [For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!] To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you— Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!” Among the windings of the violins And the ariettes Of cracked cornets Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, Capricious monotone That is at least one definite “false note.” —Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, Admire the monuments, Discuss the late events, Correct our watches by the public clocks. Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks. II Now that lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room And twists one in his fingers while she talks. “Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know What life is, you who hold it in your hands”; (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks) “You let it flow from you, you let it flow, And youth is cruel, and has no remorse And smiles at situations which it cannot see.” I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea. “Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful, after all.” The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: “I am always sure that you understand My feelings, always sure that you feel, Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel. You will go on, and when you have prevailed You can say: at this point many a one has failed. But what have I, but what have I, my friend, To give you, what can you receive from me? Only the friendship and the sympathy Of one about to reach her journey’s end. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...” I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends For what she has said to me? You will see me any morning in the park Reading the comics and the sporting page. Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage. A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, Another bank defaulter has confessed. I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired Reiterates some worn-out common song With the smell of hyacinths across the garden Recalling things that other people have desired. Are these ideas right or wrong? III The October night comes down; returning as before Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. “And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? But that’s a useless question. You hardly know when you are coming back, You will find so much to learn.” My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac. “Perhaps you can write to me.” My self-possession flares up for a second; This is as I had reckoned. “I have been wondering frequently of late (But our beginnings never know our ends!) Why we have not developed into friends.” I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark Suddenly, his expression in a glass. My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. “For everybody said so, all our friends, They all were sure our feelings would relate So closely! I myself can hardly understand. We must leave it now to fate. You will write, at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.” And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression ... dance, dance Like a dancing bear, Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance— Well! and what if she should die some afternoon, Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose; Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand With the smoke coming down above the housetops; Doubtful, for a while Not knowing what to feel or if I understand Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon... Would she not have the advantage, after all? This music is successful with a “dying fall” Now that we talk of dying— And should I have the right to smile?

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Fire of Drift-Wood We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess. The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Ballad by the Fire Slowly I smoke and hug my knee, The while a witless masquerade Of things that only children see Floats in a mist of light and shade: They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, And with a weak, remindful glow, The falling embers break and fade, As one by one the phantoms go. Then, with a melancholy glee To think where once my fancy strayed, I muse on what the years may be Whose coming tales are all unsaid, Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid Within their shadowed niches, grow By grim degrees to pick and spade, As one by one the phantoms go. But then, what though the mystic Three Around me ply their merry trade? -- And Charon soon may carry me Across the gloomy Stygian glade? -- Be up, my soul! nor be afraid Of what some unborn year may show; But mind your human debts are paid, As one by one the phantoms go. ENVOY Life is the game that must be played: This truth at least, good friend, we know; So live and laugh, nor be dismayed As one by one the phantoms go.

Written by Seamus Heaney | The Harvest Bow As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silence in you In wheat that does not rust But brightens as it tightens twist by twist Into a knowable corona, A throwaway love-knot of straw. Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent Until your fingers moved somnambulant: I tell and finger it like braille, Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable, And if I spy into its golden loops I see us walk between the railway slopes Into an evening of long grass and midges, Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges, An auction notice on an outhouse wall-- You with a harvest bow in your lapel, Me with the fishing rod, already homesick For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes Nothing: that original townland Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand. The end of art is peace Could be the motto of this frail device That I have pinned up on our deal dresser-- Like a drawn snare Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

Written by Anne Sexton | The Exorcists And I solemnly swear on the chill of secrecy that I know you not, this room never, the swollen dress I wear, nor the anonymous spoons that free me, nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover. For all these present, before that wandering ghost, that yellow moth of my summer bed, I say: this small event is not. So I prepare, am dosed in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid. I was brown with August, the clapping waves at my thighs and a storm riding into the cove. We swam while the others beached and burst for their boarded huts, their hale cries shouting back to us and the hollow slam of the dory against the float. Black arms of thunder strapped upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain and stroked past the boat. We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped in green and that suddenly inadequate stain of lightning belling around our skin. Bodies in air we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack. It was yellow inside, the sound of the underwing of the sun. I swear, I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac of summer loves, I know you not.

Written by Robert Frost | The Black Cottage We chanced in passing by that afternoon To catch it in a sort of special picture Among tar-banded ancient cherry trees, Set well back from the road in rank lodged grass, The little cottage we were speaking of, A front with just a door between two windows, Fresh painted by the shower a velvet black. We paused, the minister and I, to look. He made as if to hold it at arm's length Or put the leaves aside that framed it in. "Pretty," he said. "Come in. No one will care." The path was a vague parting in the grass That led us to a weathered window-sill. We pressed our faces to the pane. "You see," he said, "Everything's as she left it when she died. Her sons won't sell the house or the things in it. They say they mean to come and summer here Where they were boys. They haven't come this year. They live so far away--one is out west-- It will be hard for them to keep their word. Anyway they won't have the place disturbed." A buttoned hair-cloth lounge spread scrolling arms Under a crayon portrait on the wall Done sadly from an old daguerreotype. "That was the father as he went to war. She always, when she talked about war, Sooner or later came and leaned, half knelt Against the lounge beside it, though I doubt If such unlifelike lines kept power to stir Anything in her after all the years. He fell at Gettysburg or Fredericksburg, I ought to know--it makes a difference which: Fredericksburg wasn't Gettysburg, of course. But what I'm getting to is how forsaken A little cottage this has always seemed; Since she went more than ever, but before-- I don't mean altogether by the lives That had gone out of it, the father first, Then the two sons, till she was left alone. (Nothing could draw her after those two sons. She valued the considerate neglect She had at some cost taught them after years.) I mean by the world's having passed it by-- As we almost got by this afternoon. It always seems to me a sort of mark To measure how far fifty years have brought us. Why not sit down if you are in no haste? These doorsteps seldom have a visitor. The warping boards pull out their own old nails With none to tread and put them in their place. She had her own idea of things, the old lady. And she liked talk. She had seen Garrison And Whittier, and had her story of them. One wasn't long in learning that she thought Whatever else the Civil War was for It wasn't just to keep the States together, Nor just to free the slaves, though it did both. She wouldn't have believed those ends enough To have given outright for them all she gave. Her giving somehow touched the principle That all men are created free and equal. And to hear her quaint phrases--so removed From the world's view to-day of all those things. That's a hard mystery of Jefferson's. What did he mean? Of course the easy way Is to decide it simply isn't true. It may not be. I heard a fellow say so. But never mind, the Welshman got it planted Where it will trouble us a thousand years. Each age will have to reconsider it. You couldn't tell her what the West was saying, And what the South to her serene belief. She had some art of hearing and yet not Hearing the latter wisdom of the world. White was the only race she ever knew. Black she had scarcely seen, and yellow never. But how could they be made so very unlike By the same hand working in the same stuff? She had supposed the war decided that. What are you going to do with such a person? Strange how such innocence gets its own way. I shouldn't be surprised if in this world It were the force that would at last prevail. Do you know but for her there was a time When to please younger members of the church, Or rather say non-members in the church, Whom we all have to think of nowadays, I would have changed the Creed a very little? Not that she ever had to ask me not to; It never got so far as that; but the bare thought Of her old tremulous bonnet in the pew, And of her half asleep was too much for me. Why, I might wake her up and startle her. It was the words 'descended into Hades' That seemed too pagan to our liberal youth. You know they suffered from a general onslaught. And well, if they weren't true why keep right on Saying them like the heathen? We could drop them. Only--there was the bonnet in the pew. Such a phrase couldn't have meant much to her. But suppose she had missed it from the Creed As a child misses the unsaid Good-night, And falls asleep with heartache--how should I feel? I'm just as glad she made me keep hands off, For, dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true. Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt It will turn true again, for so it goes. Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favour. As I sit here, and oftentimes, I wish I could be monarch of a desert land I could devote and dedicate forever To the truths we keep coming back and back to. So desert it would have to be, so walled By mountain ranges half in summer snow, No one would covet it or think it worth The pains of conquering to force change on. Scattered oases where men dwelt, but mostly Sand dunes held loosely in tamarisk Blown over and over themselves in idleness. Sand grains should sugar in the natal dew The babe born to the desert, the sand storm Retard mid-waste my cowering caravans-- "There are bees in this wall." He struck the clapboards, Fierce heads looked out; small bodies pivoted. We rose to go. Sunset blazed on the windows.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Lancelot Gawaine, aware again of Lancelot In the King’s garden, coughed and followed him; Whereat he turned and stood with folded arms And weary-waiting eyes, cold and half-closed— Hard eyes, where doubts at war with memories Fanned a sad wrath. “Why frown upon a friend? Few live that have too many,” Gawaine said, And wished unsaid, so thinly came the light Between the narrowing lids at which he gazed. “And who of us are they that name their friends?” Lancelot said. “They live that have not any. Why do they live, Gawaine? Ask why, and answer.” Two men of an elected eminence, They stood for a time silent. Then Gawaine, Acknowledging the ghost of what was gone, Put out his hand: “Rather, I say, why ask? If I be not the friend of Lancelot, May I be nailed alive along the ground And emmets eat me dead. If I be not The friend of Lancelot, may I be fried With other liars in the pans of hell. What item otherwise of immolation Your Darkness may invent, be it mine to endure And yours to gloat on. For the time between, Consider this thing you see that is my hand. If once, it has been yours a thousand times; Why not again? Gawaine has never lied To Lancelot; and this, of all wrong days— This day before the day when you go south To God knows what accomplishment of exile— Were surely an ill day for lies to find An issue or a cause or an occasion. King Ban your father and King Lot my father, Were they alive, would shake their heads in sorrow To see us as we are, and I shake mine In wonder. Will you take my hand, or no? Strong as I am, I do not hold it out For ever and on air. You see—my hand.” Lancelot gave his hand there to Gawaine, Who took it, held it, and then let it go, Chagrined with its indifference. “Yes, Gawaine, I go tomorrow, and I wish you well; You and your brothers, Gareth, Gaheris,— And Agravaine; yes, even Agravaine, Whose tongue has told all Camelot and all Britain More lies than yet have hatched of Modred’s envy. You say that you have never lied to me, And I believe it so. Let it be so. For now and always. Gawaine, I wish you well. Tomorrow I go south, as Merlin went, But not for Merlin’s end. I go, Gawaine, And leave you to your ways. There are ways left.” “There are three ways I know, three famous ways, And all in Holy Writ,” Gawaine said, smiling: “The snake’s way and the eagle’s way are two, And then we have a man’s way with a maid— Or with a woman who is not a maid. Your late way is to send all women scudding, To the last flash of the last cramoisy, While you go south to find the fires of God. Since we came back again to Camelot From our immortal Quest—I came back first— No man has known you for the man you were Before you saw whatever ’t was you saw, To make so little of kings and queens and friends Thereafter. Modred? Agravaine? My brothers? And what if they be brothers? What are brothers, If they be not our friends, your friends and mine? You turn away, and my words are no mark On you affection or your memory? So be it then, if so it is to be. God save you, Lancelot; for by Saint Stephen, You are no more than man to save yourself.” “Gawaine, I do not say that you are wrong, Or that you are ill-seasoned in your lightness; You say that all you know is what you saw, And on your own averment you saw nothing. Your spoken word, Gawaine, I have not weighed In those unhappy scales of inference That have no beam but one made out of hates And fears, and venomous conjecturings; Your tongue is not the sword that urges me Now out of Camelot. Two other swords There are that are awake, and in their scabbards Are parching for the blood of Lancelot. Yet I go not away for fear of them, But for a sharper care. You say the truth, But not when you contend the fires of God Are my one fear,—for there is one fear more. Therefore I go. Gawaine, I wish you well.” “Well-wishing in a way is well enough; So, in a way, is caution; so, in a way, Are leeches, neatherds, and astrologers. Lancelot, listen. Sit you down and listen: You talk of swords and fears and banishment. Two swords, you say; Modred and Agravaine, You mean. Had you meant Gaheris and Gareth, Or willed an evil on them, I should welcome And hasten your farewell. But Agravaine Hears little what I say; his ears are Modred’s. The King is Modred’s father, and the Queen A prepossession of Modred’s lunacy. So much for my two brothers whom you fear, Not fearing for yourself. I say to you, Fear not for anything—and so be wise And amiable again as heretofore; Let Modred have his humor, and Agravaine His tongue. The two of them have done their worst, And having done their worst, what have they done? A whisper now and then, a chirrup or so In corners,—and what else? Ask what, and answer.” Still with a frown that had no faith in it, Lancelot, pitying Gawaine’s lost endeavour To make an evil jest of evidence, Sat fronting him with a remote forbearance— Whether for Gawaine blind or Gawaine false, Or both, or neither, he could not say yet, If ever; and to himself he said no more Than he said now aloud: “What else, Gawaine? What else, am I to say? Then ruin, I say; Destruction, dissolution, desolation, I say,—should I compound with jeopardy now. For there are more than whispers here, Gawaine: The way that we have gone so long together Has underneath our feet, without our will, Become a twofold faring. Yours, I trust, May lead you always on, as it has led you, To praise and to much joy. Mine, I believe, Leads off to battles that are not yet fought, And to the Light that once had blinded me. When I came back from seeing what I saw, I saw no place for me in Camelot. There is no place for me in Camelot. There is no place for me save where the Light May lead me; and to that place I shall go. Meanwhile I lay upon your soul no load Of counsel or of empty admonition; Only I ask of you, should strife arise In Camelot, to remember, if you may, That you’ve an ardor that outruns your reason, Also a glamour that outshines your guile; And you are a strange hater. I know that; And I’m in fortune that you hate not me. Yet while we have our sins to dream about, Time has done worse for time than in our making; Albeit there may be sundry falterings And falls against us in the Book of Man.” “Praise Adam, you are mellowing at last! I’ve always liked this world, and would so still; And if it is your new Light leads you on To such an admirable gait, for God’s sake, Follow it, follow it, follow it, Lancelot; Follow it as you never followed glory. Once I believed that I was on the way That you call yours, but I came home again To Camelot—and Camelot was right, For the world knows its own that knows not you; You are a thing too vaporous to be sharing The carnal feast of life. You mow down men Like elder-stems, and you leave women sighing For one more sight of you; but they do wrong. You are a man of mist, and have no shadow. God save you, Lancelot. If I laugh at you, I laugh in envy and in admiration.” The joyless evanescence of a smile, Discovered on the face of Lancelot By Gawaine’s unrelenting vigilance, Wavered, and with a sullen change went out; And then there was the music of a woman Laughing behind them, and a woman spoke: “Gawaine, you said ‘God save you, Lancelot.’ Why should He save him any more to-day Than on another day? What has he done, Gawaine, that God should save him?” Guinevere, With many questions in her dark blue eyes And one gay jewel in her golden hair, Had come upon the two of them unseen, Till now she was a russet apparition At which the two arose—one with a dash Of easy leisure in his courtliness, One with a stately calm that might have pleased The Queen of a strange land indifferently. The firm incisive languor of her speech, Heard once, was heard through battles: “Lancelot, What have you done to-day that God should save you? What has he done, Gawaine, that God should save him? I grieve that you two pinks of chivalry Should be so near me in my desolation, And I, poor soul alone, know nothing of it. What has he done, Gawaine?” With all her poise, To Gawaine’s undeceived urbanity She was less queen than woman for the nonce, And in her eyes there was a flickering Of a still fear that would not be veiled wholly With any mask of mannered nonchalance. “What has he done? Madam, attend your nephew; And learn from him, in your incertitude, That this inordinate man Lancelot, This engine of renown, this hewer down daily Of potent men by scores in our late warfare, Has now inside his head a foreign fever That urges him away to the last edge Of everything, there to efface himself In ecstasy, and so be done with us. Hereafter, peradventure certain birds Will perch in meditation on his bones, Quite as if they were some poor sailor’s bones, Or felon’s jettisoned, or fisherman’s, Or fowler’s bones, or Mark of Cornwall’s bones. In fine, this flower of men that was our comrade Shall be for us no more, from this day on, Than a much remembered Frenchman far away. Magnanimously I leave you now to prize Your final sight of him; and leaving you, I leave the sun to shine for him alone, Whiles I grope on to gloom. Madam, farewell; And you, contrarious Lancelot, farewell.”

Written by Anne Sexton | A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston Until tonight they were separate specialties, different stories, the best of their own worst. Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first story. Someday, I promised her, I'll be someone going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum school for proper girls. The next April the plane bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned and fear blew down my throat, that last profane gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor, sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure. Maybe Rose, there is always another story, better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory. Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy's story, the April night of the civilian air crash and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper, the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her. This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds. And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature photograph left, too long now for fear to remember. Special tonight because I made her into a story that I grew to know and savor. A reason to worry, Rose, when you fix an old death like that, and outliving the impact, to find you've pretended. We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat. I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.

Written by Robert Frost | To E.T I slumbered with your poems on my breast Spread open as I dropped them half-read through Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb To see, if in a dream they brought of you, I might not have the chance I missed in life Through some delay, and call you to your face First solider, and then poet, and then both, Who died a soldier-poet of your race. I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained-- And one thing more that was not then to say: The Victory for what it lost and gained. You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day The war seemed over more for you than me, But now for me than you--the other way. How ever, though, for even me who knew The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine, If I was not speak of it to you And see you pleased once more with words of mine?