Percival Lowell
Dying, saw his life a thing
Of large beginnings; and for young
Hands yet untrained the harvesting,
Amid the iniquitous years if harvest sprung.
So in his death he sowed himself anew;
Cast his intents over the grave to strike
In the left world of livers living roots,
And banyan-like,
From his one tree raise up a wood of shoots.
The indestructible intents which drew
Their sap from him,
Thus with a purpose grim,
Into strange lands and hostile yet he threw,
That there might be
From him throughout the earth posterity:
And so did he—
Like to a smoldering fire by wind-blasts swirled—
His dying embers strew to kindle all the world.
Yet not for this I praise
The ending of his strenuous days;
No, not alone that still
Beyond the grave stretched that imperial Will.
But that Death seems
To set the gateway wide to ampler dreams.
So to the last
A visionary vast,
The aspirant soul would have the body lie
Among the hills immovably exalt
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