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Poem	(In Memoriam.) They trod the streets and squares where now I tread, With weary hearts, a little while ago; When, thin and grey, the melancholy snow Clung to the leafless branches overhead; Or when the smoke-veiled sky grew stormy-red In autumn; with a re-arisen woe Wrestled, what time the passionate spring winds blow; And paced scorched stones in summer:--they are dead. The sorrow of their souls to them did seem As real as mine to me, as permanent. To-day, it is the shadow of a dream, The half-forgotten breath of breezes spent. So shall another soothe his woe supreme-- "No more he comes, who this way came and went."
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