TCDE-Team at 20:52, 4 April 2026

2026-04-04T20:52:04Z

TCDE-Team at 15:05, 21 July 2016

2016-07-21T15:05:08Z

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''The Passing'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in [[Songs of Action]] on 8 june 1898.

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== Editions ==

* in ''[[Songs of Action]]'' (1898-1916, [[Smith, Elder & Co.]] [UK])
* in ''[[Songs of Action]]'' (august 1898, [[Charles Scribner's Sons]] [US])
* in ''[[Songs of Action]]'' (september 1898, [[Doubleday & McClure Co.|Doubleday, Page & Co.]] [US])
* in ''[[Songs of Action]]'' (1918-1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]'' (1922-1928, [[John Murray]] [UK])

== The Passing ==

It was the hour of dawn, 
When the heart beats thin and small, 
The window glimmered grey, 
Framed in a shadow wall.

And in the cold sad light 
Of the early morningtide, 
The dear dead girl came back 
And stood by his bedside.

The girl he lost came back: 
He saw her flowing hair; 
It flickered and it waved 
Like a breath in frosty air.

As in a steamy glass, 
Her face was dim and blurred; 
Her voice was sweet and thin, 
Like the calling of a bird.

"You said that you would come, 
You promised not to stay; 
And I have waited here, 
To help you on the way.

"I have waited on, 
But still you bide below; 
You said that you would come, 
And oh, I want you so!

"For half my soul is here, 
And half my soul is there, 
When you are on the earth 
And I am in the air.

"But on your dressing-stand 
There lies a triple key; 
Unlock the little gate 
Which fences you from me.

"Just one little pang, 
Just one throb of pain, 
And then your weary head 
Between my breasts again."

In the dim unhomely light 
Of the early morningtide, 
He took the triple key 
And he laid it by his side.

A pistol, silver chased, 
An open hunting knife, 
A phial of the drug 
Which cures the ill of life.

He looked upon the three, 
And sharply drew his breath: 
"Now help me, oh my love, 
For I fear this cold grey death."

She bent her face above, 
She kissed him and she smiled; 
She soothed him as a mother 
May sooth a frightened child.

"Just that little pang, love, 
Just a throb of pain, 
And then your weary head 
Between my breasts again."

He snatched the pistol up, 
He pressed it to his ear; 
But a sudden sound broke in, 
And his skin was raw with fear.

He took the hunting knife, 
He tried to raise the blade; 
It glimmered cold and white, 
And he was sore afraid.

He poured the potion out, 
But it was thick and brown; 
His throat was sealed against it, 
And he could not drain it down.

He looked to her for help, 
And when he looked—behold! 
His love was there before him 
As in the days of old.

He saw the drooping head, 
He saw the gentle eyes; 
He saw the same shy grace of hers 
He had been wont to prize.

She pointed and she smiled, 
And lo! he was aware 
Of a half-lit bedroom chamber 
And a silent figure there.

A silent figure lying 
A-sprawl upon a bed, 
With a silver-mounted pistol 
Still clotted to his head.

And as he downward gazed, 
Her voice came full and clear, 
The homely tender voice 
Which he had loved to hear:

"The key is very certain, 
The door is sealed to none. 
You did it, oh, my darling! 
And you never knew it done.

"When the net was broken, 
You thought you felt its mesh; 
You carried to the spirit 
The troubles of the flesh.

"And are you trembling still, dear? 
Then let me take your hand; 
And I will lead you outward 
To a sweet and restful land.

"You know how once in London 
I put my griefs on you; 
But I can carry yours now - 
Most sweet it is to do!

"Most sweet it is to do, love, 
And very sweet to plan 
How I, the helpless woman, 
Can help the helpful man.

"But let me see you smiling 
With the smile I know so well; 
Forget the world of shadows, 
And the empty broken shell.

"It is the worn-out garment 
In which you tore a rent; 
You tossed it down, and carelessly 
Upon your way you went.

"It is not ''you'', my sweetheart, 
For you are here with me. 
That frame was but the promise of 
The thing that was to be-

"A tuning of the choir 
Ere the harmonies begin; 
And yet it is the image 
Of the subtle thing within.

"There's not a trick of body, 
There's not a trait of mind, 
But you bring it over with you, 
Ethereal, refined,

"But still the same; for surely 
If we alter as we die, 
You would be you no longer, 
And I would not be I.

"I might be an angel, 
But not the girl you knew; 
You might be immaculate, 
But that would not be you.

"And now I see you smiling, 
So, darling, take my hand; 
And I will lead you outward 
To a sweet and pleasant land,

"Where thought is clear and nimble, 
Where life is pure and fresh, 
Where the soul comes back rejoicing 
From the mud-bath of the flesh

"But still that soul is human, 
With human ways, and so 
I love my love in spirit, 
As I loved him long ago."

So with hands together 
And fingers twining tight, 
The two dead lovers drifted 
In the golden morning light.

But a grey-haired man was lying 
Beneath them on a bed, 
With a silver-mounted pistol 
Still clotted to his head.

----
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle|Back to Conan Doyle]]

The Passing - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 20:52, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 15:05, 21 July 2016