A French Sonnet written a day before the funeral of my dear cousin, who committed suicide.
Now, my friend, my cousin, you are gone;
your being fades, like twilight mirrored on
the ocean of our tears, like light upon
the shroud of sunset when its last had shone.
Now, my friend, our night is setting slow—
it closes on us like your coffin’s woe
as we begin lamenting at its toe
for you, regretting now your absent glow.
Now, the night is dark without you near;
though mourning is the only owl we hear—
we fear your spirit fades away as well
as slowly as your memory from the heart.
And while the dawn approaches, who can tell?
Though you have left us, hope will not depart.
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