The Poet

HIMSELF is least afraid

When the singing lips in the dust

With all mute lips are laid.

For thither all men must.

Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song

Upon the faithful air

And given it speed—is strong

That last strange hour to dare,

Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time

That greater self shall pass,

And wear its eager prime

And lend the youth it has

Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest

And now—his word gone forth—

May have his perfect rest

Low in the tender earth,

The wind across his breast.