 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
ON READING OF A POET'S DEATH
I read that, in his sleep, the poet died
Ere the day broke;
In a new dawn, as rose earth's crimson tide,
His spirit woke.
Ere the day broke;
In a new dawn, as rose earth's crimson tide,
His spirit woke.
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Yet still with us his golden spirit stayed:
On the same page
That told his end, his living verse I read—
His lyric rage.
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!
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.
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.
In that he gives
His soul away, magnificently free—
By this he lives.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |