Classic Poem

Is it the martins or katydids? —
Early morning or late at night?
A dream, belike, kneeling down on the lids
Of a dying man's eyesight.
...

Over and over I heard the rain —
Over and over I waked to see
The blaze of the lamp as again and again
Its stare insulted me.
...

It is not the click of the clock I hear —
It is the pulse of the clock, — and lo!
How it throbs and throbs on the quickened ear
Of the dead man listening so!

I heard them whisper " She would not come; "
But, being dead, I knew — I knew! . . .
Some hearts they love us alive, and some
They love us dead — they do!

And I am dead — and I joy to be, —
For here are my folded hands, so cold,
And yet blood-warm with the roses she
Has given me to hold.

Dead — yea, dead! — But I hear the beat
Of her heart, as her warm lips touch my brow —
And O how sweet — how blinding sweet
To know that she loves me now!