With Love Dead Poem by John William Inchbold

Say what to me forsooth is praise, what blame
When thou, my only dearest love, art dead,
And what the sweet loud passing breath of fame,
When thou, my loveliest love, hast drooped thine head?
And what this living rush of hearts to me?
I gently move, yea, hand in hand with Death
Whose love to me must ever, ever be,
Though she be pale and all devoid of breath,
Yet giving me imaginings so sweet,
I am amazed, if more I loved my Love
When meeting hearts in unison could beat
And loving breath with form of words could move;
Then wonder melts to sadness once again,
At her strange look my doubt has turned to pain.