A Dead Friend

IT hardly seems that he is dead, 
  So strange it is that we are here 
Beneath this great blue shell of sky 
  With apple-bloom and pear: 
It scarce seems true that we can note 
  The bursting rosebud’s edge of flame, 
Or watch the blackbird’s swelling throat 
  While he is but a name. 
 
No more the chaffinch at his step 
  Pipes suddenly her shrill surprise,
For in an ecstasy of sleep 
  Unconsciously he lies, 
Not knowing that the sweet brown lark 
  From off her bosom’s feathery lace 
Shakes down the dewdrop in her flight
  To fall upon his face.