Dirge

Gone is he now.
One flower the less
Is left to make
For thee less lone
Earth's wilderness,
Where thou
Must still live on.

What hath been, ne'er
May be again.
Yet oft of old,
To cheat despair,
Tales false and fair
In vain
Of death were told.

O vain belief!
O'erweening dreams!
Trust not fond hope,
Nor think that bliss
Which neither seems,
Nor is,
Aught else than grief.

Robert Calverley Trevelyan

Robert Calverley Trevelyan was an English poet and translator, well-regarded within early 20th-century literary circles. Born on June 28, 1872, he belonged to an influential family and was educated at Harrow and Trinity College, Cambridge. Trevelyan's close associations with prominent literary figures of his time, including Rupert Brooke, helped spotlight his works. He published several volumes of poetry and translations, though his reputation today remains somewhat overshadowed by his contemporaries. He passed away on March 21, 1951.

Robert Calverley Trevelyan

English

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A Dirge Upon The Death Of The Right Valiant Lord, Bernard Stuart.

Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have
While we this trental sing about thy grave.

Had wolves or tigers seen but thee,
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The Newly Dead.

I.

With the light just quenched in their eyes
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II.

Still, voiceless, cold,
They lie in their shrouds and hold
The crumbling links that make
A chain for Memory's sake,
Broken, alas! too soon.
Blithe morn and brazen noon
And eve with garb of gray and gold,
Know them no more in the dark ways they take.
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The Half Of Life Gone.

The days have slain the days,
and the seasons have gone by
And brought me the summer again;
and here on the grass I lie
As erst I lay and was glad
ere I meddled with right and with wrong.
Wide lies the mead as of old,
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By the side of the elm-clad bank
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the quivering rushes gleam.
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they are eager at winning the hay,
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round the yellow red-wheeled wain,
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comes the bailiff and the beer,
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Fragment III - Years After

Fade off the ridges, rosy light,
Fade slowly from the last gray height,
And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve
The heart of this enchanted eve!

All things beneath the still sky seem
Bound by the spell of a sweet dream;
In the dusk forest, dreamingly,
Droops slowly down each plumèd head;
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The river has a silken sheen,
But red rays of the sunset stain
Its pictures, from the steep shore caught,
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The Days go by

The days go by, the days go by,
Sadly and wearily to die:
Each with its burden of small cares,
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Ah, nevermore on shining plumes,
Shedding a rain of rare perfumes
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Where is my life? Where is my life?
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The passion and the splendid strife?
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My thoughts take hue from this wild day,
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