A poem George Santayana wrote on the early death in 1893 of his close friend, Warwick Potter, who apparently died in Brest of cholera caught after being weakened due to severe sea-sickness experienced while yachting. More about Potter here.
Sonnet II, from “To W.P.”
With you a part of me hath passed away;
For in the peopled forest of my mind
A tree made leafless by this wintry wind
Shall never don again its green array.
Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,
Have something of their friendliness resigned;
Another, if I would, I could not find,
And I am grown much older in a day.
But yet I treasure in my memory
Your gift of charity, and young heart’s ease,
And the dear honour of your amity;
For these once mine, my life is rich with these.
And I scarce know which part may greater be,–
What I keep of you, or you rob from me.
Previous posts of poetry are here.
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