After Her Going
The after-even! Ah, did I walk,
Indeed, in her or even?
For nothing of me or around
But absent She did leaven,
Felt in my body as its soul,
And in my soul its heaven.
'Ah me! my very flesh turns soul,
Essenced,' I sighed, 'with bliss!'
And the blackbird held his lutany,
All fragrant-through with bliss;
And all things stilled were as a maid
Sweet with a single kiss.
For grief of perfect fairness, eve
Could nothing do but smile;
The time was far too perfect fair,
Being but for a while;
And ah, in me, too happy grief
Blinded herself with smile!
The sunset at its radiant heart
Had somewhat unconfest:
The bird was loath of speech, its song
Half-refluent on its breast,
And made melodious toyings with
A note or two at best.
And she was gone, my sole, my Fair,
Ah, sole my Fair, was gone!
Methinks, throughout the world 'twere right
I had been sad alone;
And yet, such sweet in all things' heart,
And such sweet in my own!
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Comments about this poem (After Her Going by Francis Thompson )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1644 - 1694)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1612 – 16 September 1672)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(c. 600 BCE)
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