On the Death of Coleridge

And thou art gone, most loved, most honour'd Friend!
No — never more thy gentle voice shall blend
With air of earth its pure ideal tones —
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones,
The heart and intellect. And I no more
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathom'd deep,
The human soul; as when, push'd off the shore,
Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep,
Itself the while so bright! For oft we seem'd
As on some starless sea — all dark above,
All dark below- — yet, onward as we drove,
To plough up light that ever round us stream'd.
But he who mourns is not as one bereft
Of all he loved: thy living truths are left.