SYRIA
I thought in Syria, Life was more than Death.
A tomb there was forsaken of its dead,
But Death filled not the place; here with bowed head
Worships the world forever at the tread
Of one who lived, who liveth, and shall live—
Whose grave is but a footstep on the sod;
Men kiss the ground where living feet have trod.
Here not to Death but Life, they worship give.
August is Death, but this one tomb is rife
With a more mighty presence; it is Life.
THE DEAD POET
A. H.
His was the love of art and song,
And well he loved the flowery way;
Yet great his wrath at prospered wrong;
When evil triumphed day by day
Then plunged he in the fray.
And when brave innocence went down
Then did the vanquished find a friend.
With him went justice through the town;
No foeman ever saw him bend;
He scorn for scorn could send.
Men said his heritage was lost;
For, born to gentler use, his youth
Was wasted in rude strife; the cost
Too great, they deemed, altho', in sooth,
Through him men learned of Truth.
