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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349969" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Siste Viator</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHAT is it that is dead?<br>Somewhere there is a grave, and something lies<br>Cold in the ground, and stirs not for my sighs,<br>Nor songs that I can make, nor smiles from me,<br>Nor tenderest foolish words that I have said;<br>Something that was has hushed, and will not be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did it go yesterday?<br>Or did it wane away with the old years?<br>There hath not been farewell, nor watchers' tears,<br>Nor hopes, nor vain reprieves, nor strife with death,<br>Nor lingering in a meted out delay;<br>None closed the eyes nor felt the latest breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, be there joyous skies,<br>It is not in their sunshine; in the night<br>It is not in the silence, and the light<br>Of all the silver stars; the flowers asleep<br>Dream no more of it, nor their morning eyes<br>Betray the secrets it has bidden them keep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Birds that go singing now<br>Forget it and leave sweetness meaningless;<br>The fitful nightingale, that feigns distress<br>To sing it all away, flows on by rote;<br>The seeking lark, in very heaven, I trow,<br>Shall find no memory to inform her note.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The voices of the shore<br>Chime not with it for burden; in the wood,<br>Where it has soul of the vast solitude,<br>It hath forsook the stillness; dawn and day<br>And the deep-thoughted dusk know it no more;<br>It is no more the freshness of the May.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Joy hath it not for heart;<br>Nor music for its second, subtler, tongue,<br>Sounding what music's self hath never sung;<br>Nor very Sorrow needs it help her weep.<br>Vanished from everywhere! what was a part<br>Of all and everywhere; lost into sleep!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What was it ere it went?<br>Whence had it birth? What is its name to call,<br>That gone unmissed has left a want in all?<br>Or shall I cry on Youth, in June-time still?<br>Or cry on Hope, who long since am content?<br>Or Love, who hold him ready at my will?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What is it that is dead?<br>Breath of a flower? sea-freshness on a wind?<br>Oh, dearest, what is that that we should find,<br>If you and I at length could win it back?<br>What have we lost and know not it hath fled?<br>Heart of my heart, could it be love we lack?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Augusta+Davies+Webster">Augusta Davies Webster</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349969" data-title="Siste Viator de Augusta Davies Webster" data-description="WHAT is it that is dead?
Somewhere there is a grave, and something lies
Cold in the ground, and stirs not for my sighs,
Nor songs that I can make, nor smiles from me,
Nor tenderest foolish words that I have said;
Something that was has hushed, and..."></div>
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