I
SAINTS have adored the lofty soul of you. | |
| Poets have whitened at your high renown. | |
| We stand among the many millions who | |
| Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. | |
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| You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried | 5 |
| To live as of your presence unaware. | |
| But now in every road on every side | |
| We see your straight and steadfast signpost there. | |
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| I think it like that signpost in my land | |
| Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go | 10 |
| Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, | |
| Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, | |
| A homeless land and friendless, but a land | |
| I did not know and that I wished to know. | |
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II
Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: | 15 |
| Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, | |
| A merciful putting away of what has been. | |
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| And this we know: Death is not Life effete, | |
| Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen | |
| So marvellous things know well the end not yet. | 20 |
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| Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: | |
| Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, | |
| "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" | |
| But a big blot has hid each yesterday | |
| So poor, so manifestly incomplete. | 25 |
| And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, | |
| Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet | |
| And blossoms and is you, when you are dead. | |
