Three Friends of Mine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I

When I remember them, those friends of mine,
         Who are no longer here, the noble three,
         Who half my life were more than friends to me,
         And whose discourse was like a generous wine,
I most of all remember the divine
         Something, that shone in them, and made us see
         The archetypal man, and what might be
         The amplitude of Nature's first design.
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands;
         I cannot find them. Nothing now is left
         But a majestic memory. They meanwhile
Wander together in Elysian lands,
         Perchance remembering me, who am bereft
         Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile.

II

In Attica thy birthplace should have been,
       &  Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas
       &  Encircle in their arms the Cyclades,
       &  So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene
And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene!
       &  Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees;
       &  Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates,
       &  And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne.
For thee old legends breathed historic breath;
       &  Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea,
       &  And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold!
O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death,
       &  Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee,
       &  That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!