Yet still with us his golden spirit stayed:
On the same page
That told his end, his living verse I read—
His lyric rage.
Behold! I thought, they call him cold in death,
But hither turn—
See where his soul, a glorious, flaming breath,
Doth pulse and burn!
This is the poet's triumph, his high doom!
After life's stress,
For him the silent, dark, o'er-shadowing tomb
Is shadowless.
And this the miracle, the mystery:
In that he gives
His soul away, magnificently free—
By this he lives.
JOHN HENRY BONER
In life's hard fight this poet did his part;
He was a hero of the mind and heart.
Now rests his body 'neath his own loved skies,
And from his tomb Courage! his spirit cries.
"A WONDROUS SONG"
A wondrous song,
Rank with sea smells and the keen lust of life;
Echoing with battle trumpets, and the moan
Of dying men in reeking hospitals;
Thrilling all through with human pity and love
And crying courage in the face of doom;—
