Last night in some dim corner of my brain,
The while I slept, there woke a thought of thee
That lit my sleep; for though no more I see
Or hear thee, and no more may share my pain
And pleasure with thee, in my heart remain
Old words of our lost friendship that to me
Are dear and sacred still, as things must be
That have been and can never be again:
Dear as the boyhood’s hopes to which we cleave
No longer--ah, no longer fancy led!
Dear as the dreams the looms of Memory weave
With many a lost and half-remembered thread;
Sacred as those last kisses that we leave
On the unknowing faces of our dead.