The cup now clouded to the brim, For him who drinketh, clears. Deep waters could not quench the light, I could not miss thee in the throng, VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN THE LONG NIGHT WHO will watch thee, little mound, When a few more years are done, And I go with them to rest In the silence that is best? Grave of my beloved one, When that I mine own have found, Who will watch thee, little mound? Who will love thee, little grave ? Hearts low in the dust lie here, Only from some dark sobbing wave The clouds shall bring their tears to lave Thy withered lilies, little grave. Airs that hover over thee, Little mound, are strangely sweet; After years that are a day Silent cities of the dead Ah, God! how miserably lost (Save the poor words the grave-stone To heedless eyes and careless thought) Of pure and blest or passion-tost: A few brief hours of bloom and frost, And where are those who loved the lost? Nothing in nature purposely is fair, To that tint mellowed which the sense will bear, Glow, and not wound the eye that, resting Upon the spot where first I saw thy green; For I am older than the age of man, Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep; me. CLARENCE HAWKES EXPERIENCE I LIKE Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand Upon the desert verge of death, and say: "What shall avail the woes of yesterday To buy to-morrow's wisdom, in the land Whose currency is strange unto our hand? In life's small market they had served to pay Some late - found rapture, could we but delay Till Time hath matched our means to our demand." But otherwise Fate wills it, for, behold, Our gathered strength of individual pain, When Time's long alchemy hath made it gold, Dies with us - hoarded all these years in vain, Since those that might be heir to it the mould Renew, and coin themselves new griefs again. II O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate, Rich with strange burden of the mingled years, Gains and renunciations, mirth and tears, And love's oblivion, and remembering hate, Nor know we what compulsion laid such freight Upon our souls-and shall our hopes and fears Buy nothing of thee, Death? Behold our wares, |