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180

“AND ART THOU TENDER?”

And art thou tender, O Death, to wayside roses,
Not good to me?
Dost thou with cold breath wither gleaming posies
On hill and lea;
Dost thou with gentle hand receive the summers,
Their glory past;
Are golden Junes within thy halls glad-comers;
In chambers vast
Of silent calm soul-healing restitution
Dost thou, O Death,
Gather the swift years weary of pollution
By living breath?
Oh, dost thou in thy wondrous darkened amber
Superb dim caves
Hold, as in fragrant solemn bridal chamber
Beneath the waves,
181

The spirits of weary singers who by mountains
And rills of Greece
Sang to the old-world unreturning fountains,
The old-world trees?
The spirit of strong unintermittent Dante
Beside thy streams
Dwells? Hast thou not some bower, tho' bowers be scanty,
For modern dreams?
Canst thou to every pallid flower be tender,
Each pale past song,
Yet not unrobe for us thy viewless splendour
O death-breast strong?
Sweeter than woman, stronger than the passion
That through youth's veins
Bounds at a woman's touch in fierce old fashion,
Death, heal our pains!
1880.
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