They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:
The tree will wither long before it fall:
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthral;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on
(From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)
My friend died a few weeks ago.
Suddenly, with out any warning, and far too soon.
He would be irritated by my stupor, my inability to focus.
He would tell to me draw a line and move forward.
