It must have been for one of us, my own, To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread. Had not my tears upon thy face been shed, Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known My loneliness; and did my feet not tread This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan.
And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain To think of thine eternity of sleep; To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep. And when this cup’s last bitterness I drain, One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep-- Thou hadst the peace, and I the undying pain.
His only comment on the poem was that long and deeply-breathed “Ah!” which meant that he had been profoundly interested, perhaps even profoundly stirred. Often it was his only comment when Swinburne, head erect, eyes ashine, and voice athrill, had in the past stolen into the same room--noiseless in his movements, even when excited--to chaunt to us some new and noble poem, carried like an uncooled bar of glowing iron direct from the smithy of his brain, and still intoning and vibrating with the deep bass of the hammer on the anvil, still singing the red fire-song of the furnace whence it came.
We sat in silence for a space, and then Watts-Dunton said:
“Our Philip was not a great, but at least he was a true poet, as well as a loyal friend and a right good fellow. He is almost forgotten now by the newer school, and among the many new voices, but Louise Chandler Moulton and Will Sharp, and others of us, have done what we could to keep his memory green. We loved him, as Gabriel and Algernon loved him, our beautiful blind poet-boy.”
When soon after I rose reluctantly to go, a change seemed to come over Watts-Dunton. The animation faded out of voice and face, and was replaced by something like anxiety, almost like pain.
“Must you go, dear fellow, must you go?” he asked sorrowfully. “There is a bed all ready prepared, for we’d hoped you’d stay the night.”
I explained that I was compelled to return to Hastings that evening, as I had to start on a journey early next morning. Perhaps I had let him overexert himself too much in conversation. Perhaps he had more to say and was disappointed not to be able to say it, for he seemed suddenly tired and sad. The brilliant talker was gone.
