Clara Poem by Nero CaroZiv

Where ever I go or where ever I be Clara is by me near
Is she under the desert wandering sands or under the snow,
Whenever I speak, she is mute; she cannot hear
The spring flowers in the meadow grow.

All her bright dark as a raven locks of hair
Tarnished under tomb stone rust,
Oh, she that was so young and fair
Fallen too soon untimely to the dust

She was like a flower; lily-like, white as snow,
Beyond full maturity she hardly grew
She was a full woman for the world to know
Sweetly she was in shape and in sinew

Confined in a coffin under a heavy stone,
Which lies over her once lovely breast,
And I vex my heart on glorious days passed, alone
She is in a wholly good world; she is at rest.

Yet still she cannot see or hear
The calm sound of lyre or the exiting lines of sonnet,
She is buried finally, eternally here,
With heavy rough earth heaped upon it.


And now what fearful, vexing thing it is to glance
Back on the gloom and the light of youth mis-spent years
What shadowy forms of longing and regrets advance
To fill me with sorrow of thousands tears



Standing over her grave, can I reach across the brink?
Of that deep hole to which she did go
Shake hands and not be swallowed by this dire sink
She will recognize my voice and answer from below



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