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Home  »  The Book of the Sonnet  »  William Green

Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.

III. Gentle Greatness Undervalued, till Lost

William Green

FROM the unbarring to the shut of day,

Ay, ofttimes restless in the midnight blind,

His loss I mourn; it lies upon my mind

Like a thick mist that will not clear away,

But bodes, and brings, griefs showers. His was a sway

Of soul so gentle, we alone might find,

Not see its strength; a wit, that, ever kind,

Would spare the humbled in its freest play;—

A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep;—

His mighty powers attired themselves so plain

They drew no worship though they won the heart:

Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep;

But, as of visiting gods the poets feign,

We knew him not, till turning to depart.