|Referring to the third verse of this poem, the Pall Mall Gazette of February 1, 1890, said: “One evening, just before his death-illness, the poet was reading this from a proof to his daughter-in-law and sister. He said: ‘It almost looks like bragging to say this, and as if I ought to cancel it; but it’s the simple truth; and as it’s truth, it shall stand.”’|
AT the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time