 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
“H. H.”
I would that in the verse she loved some word,Not all unfit, I to her praise might frame—
Some word wherein the memory of her name
Should through long years its incense still afford.
But no, her spirit smote with its own sword;
Herself has lit the fire whose blood-red flame
Shall not be quenched—this is her living fame
Who struck so well the sonnet's subtile chord.
None who e'er knew her can believe her dead;
Tho' should she die they deem it well might be
Her spirit took its everlasting flight
In summer's glory, by the sunset sea—
That onward through the Golden Gate it fled.
Ah, where that bright soul is cannot be night.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |