Gone

I can see his empty chair,
Where he played his pipe for long hours
And as if he himself is rising,
In the smoke, in the brightness of star.

As I see, I rush to find-
Neither smoke nor he is behind
And soon to my senses I do realise,
Another dream I wished was mine.

I decided again, the hundredth time,
To strongly behold the blessed life
But heart of hearts I did believe,
What may I try or plea -

I can't stop the night to give
That soul to his faded memory,
And another tear to my glee.