Something is dead . . . br The grace of sunset solitudes, the march br Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power br Of round on round of shining soldier-stars br Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun - br Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable - br The multitudinous friendliness of the sea, br Possess no more--no more. br br Something is dead . . . br The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks br And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs, br His melancholy close and closer yet br Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring br That made the heart a centre of miracles br Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours br Arise no more--no more. br br Something is dead . . . br 'Tis time to creep in close about the fire br And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream br Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice br In the young life that round us leaps and laughs, br A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride br Of God's best gift that to us twain returns, br Dear Heart, no more--no more.