IT hardly seems that he is dead, 
 So strange it is that we are here 
Beneath this great blue shell of sky 
 With apple-bloom and pear: 
It scarce seems true that we can note 
 The bursting rosebud?s edge of flame, 
Or watch the blackbird?s swelling throat 
 While he is but a name. 
 
No more the chaffinch at his step 
 Pipes suddenly her shrill surprise,
For in an ecstasy of sleep 
 Unconsciously he lies, 
Not knowing that the sweet brown lark 
 From off her bosom?s feathery lace 
Shakes down the dewdrop in her flight
 To fall upon his face.