To a Dead Poet

I knew not if to laugh or weep;
They sat and talked of you--
“’Twas here he sat; ’twas this he said!
’Twas that he used to do.

“Here is the book wherein he read,
The room, wherein he dwelt;
And he” (they said) “was such a man,
Such things he thought and felt.”

I sat and sat, I did not stir;
They talked and talked away.
I was as mute as any stone,
I had no word to say.

They talked and talked; like to a stone
My heart grew in my breast--
I, who had never seen your face
Perhaps I knew you best.