To a Dead Poet.

I KNEW not if to laugh or weep; They sat and talked of you— “’Twas here he sat; ’twas this he said! ’Twas that he used to do. “Here is the book wherein he read, The room, wherein he dwelt; And he” (they said) “was such a man, Such things he thought and felt.” I sat and sat, I did not stir; They talked and talked away. I was as mute as any stone, I had no word to say. They talked and talked; like to a stone My heart grew in my breast— I, who had never seen your face Perhaps I knew you best.