The Second Book of Modern Verse Part 38

Death -- Divination. [Charles Wharton Stork]

Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood, That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves; 'T is like the web that some old perfume weaves In a dim, lonely room where memories brood; Like snow-chilled wine it steals into the blood, Spurring the pulse its coolness half reprieves; Tenderly quickening impulses it gives, As April winds unsheathe an opening bud.

Death is like all sweet, sense-enfolding things, That lift us in a dream-delicious trance Beyond the flickering good and ill of chance; But most is Death like Music's buoyant wings, That bear the soul, a willing Ganymede, Where joys on joys forevermore succeed.

The Mould. [Gladys Cromwell]

No doubt this active will, So bravely steeped in sun, This will has vanquished Death And foiled oblivion.

But this indifferent clay, This fine experienced hand, So quiet, and these thoughts That all unfinished stand,

Feel death as though it were A shadowy caress; And win and wear a frail Archaic wistfulness.

In Patris Mei Memoriam. [John Myers O'Hara]

By the fond name that was his own and mine, The last upon his lips that strove with doom, He called me and I saw the light a.s.sume A sudden glory and around him s.h.i.+ne; And nearer now I saw the laureled line Of the august of Song before me loom, And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom, That whispered and forbade me to repine.

And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank Out of the stars and faded as a flame, And down the night, on clouds of glory, came The battle seraphs halting rank on rank; And lifted heavenward to heroic peace, He pa.s.sed and left me hope beyond surcease.

Ad Matrem Amantissimam et Carissimam Filii in Aeternum Fidelitas.

[John Myers O'Hara]

With all the fairest angels nearest G.o.d, The ineffable true of heart around the throne, There shall I find you waiting when the flown Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod; And when the grief-retracing ways I trod Become a s.h.i.+ning path to thee alone, My weary feet, that seemed to drag as stone, Shall once again, with wings of fleetness shod, Fare on, beloved, to find you! Just beyond The seraph throng await me, standing near The gentler angels, eager and apart; Be there, near G.o.d's own fairest, with the fond Sweet smile that was your own, and let me hear Your voice again and clasp you to my heart.

Afterwards. [Mahlon Leonard Fisher]

There was a day when death to me meant tears, And tearful takings-leave that had to be, And awed embarkings on an unsh.o.r.ed sea, And sudden disarrangement of the years.

But now I know that nothing interferes With the fixed forces when a tired man dies; That death is only answerings and replies, The chiming of a bell which no one hears, The casual slanting of a half-spent sun, The soft recessional of noise and coil, The coveted something time nor age can spoil; I know it is a fabric finely spun Between the stars and dark; to seize and keep, Such glad romances as we read in sleep.

Pierrette in Memory. [William Griffith]

Pierrette has gone, but it was not Exactly that she died, So much as vanished and forgot To tell where she would hide.

To keep a sudden rendezvous, It came into her mind That she was late. What could she do But leave distress behind?

Afraid of being in disgrace, And hurrying to dress, She heard there was another place In need of loveliness.

She went so softly and so soon, She hardly made a stir; But going took the stars and moon And sun away with her.

The Three Sisters. [Arthur Davison Ficke]

Gone are the three, those sisters rare With wonder-lips and eyes as.h.i.+ne.

One was wise and one was fair, And one was mine.

Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair Of only two, your ivy vine.

For one was wise and one was fair, But one was mine.

Song. [Adelaide c.r.a.psey]

I make my shroud, but no one knows -- So s.h.i.+mmering fine it is and fair, With st.i.tches set in even rows, I make my shroud, but no one knows.

In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So s.h.i.+mmering fine it is and fair.

The Unknown Beloved. [John Hall Wheelock]

I dreamed I pa.s.sed a doorway Where, for a sign of death, White ribbons one was binding About a flowery wreath.