Knowledge of that high nature; who could drink
At her fresh spirit's fountain, year by year—
What were the past without her? And her dear
Image and memory—did they, too, sink
Into the abyss?—Herself was yours, and here
Still lives remembrance; a bright, golden link
'Twixt this, the visible world, and the unknown
Toward which we journey—where she now doth live,
Close to the Eternal One. Make thou no moan;
What else may pass, this twofold gift endures;
Give thanks, and mourn not, then.—But, O, forgive!
How can I chide who mix my tears with yours?
THE POET'S SLEEP
In spite of it all I am going to sleep. Put out the lights.
Ever when slept the poet his dreams were music,
And in sweet song lived the dear dream once more.
So when from sleep and dreams again he wakes,—
Out from the world of symbols passing forth
Into that spirit-world where all is real,—
What memoried music, new and exquisite,
Shall strike on ears celestial—where he walks
Reverent among the immortal melodists!
WHERE SPRING BEGAN
The days were cold, and clouded. On a day
Before the seasonable warmth and sun
The poet died. We bore him to the tomb
And, under wreaths and flowers, we laid him down.
Then came a burst of sunshine. Bright it poured
On the banked blossoms and the leafless trees.
There, at the poet's grave, the spring began.
