The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

With thee so vanished, our life's light has flown;
A sudden night has fallen on the day, —
A cheerless, moonless night, with no white way
Of stars that lead to lands of men unknown;
A night wherein the winds of grief are loud;
A night made black with sorrow as a cloud;
A night that wraps its darkness as a shroud
Around a world now sad and cold and gray.

God fashioned thee and gave thy spirit birth,
To ease a little our sore load of pain;
More sweet to us thy love was than the rain
Is, after long hot days, to the parched earth.

Thou wert a refuge in a stormy deep;
From thee there flowed a peace like conscious sleep.
I will not sow sweet things, who may not reap;
I will not strive, who nothing here may gain.

As is, to one within his dungeon's gloom,
A sudden burst of music and of light,
Cleaving the darkness, trancing ear and sight, —
Making resplendent what is still his tomb, —
So, living, to my prisoned soul thou wert;
Now all once more is dark about my heart, —
No light, nor any sound its depth shall part,
And there shall be no daybreak to this night.

Now all is done; no more is left to do.
A space we stood together on life's shore
Waving weak hands to those who went before;
Thou knowest now if heavenly skies are blue;
Thou knowest if the after-world is sweet: —
Dost thou tread light or darkness 'neath thy feet?
When with weak hands upon the gate we beat,
Will it be opened, or closed evermore?

And shall we meet with lips that yearn to kiss, —
Meet soul to soul as face to face on earth?
And shall there be an end of death and dearth?
Yea, shall there be a harvest-time of bliss;
And shall we stand together side by side,
Never again to sorrow or divide?
And shall at length our hearts be satisfied,
Full of the wonder of the second birth?

Shall this life past be as a dream outdreamed,—
The ghastly fancy of a fevered brain?
Shall we at all remember the old pain,
So great it past all human bearing seemed?

If angels tell us of that mournful time,
Will it then sound but as an empty rhyme
Made by a boy in some forgotten clime?
Ah, shall we say we have not lived in vain?

Shall we stand up before the face of God,
Stand up and sing a loud, glad song of praise,
And bless him for the sorrow of our days,
And kiss with pure cold lips the burning rod
Wherewith he hath so stricken us, that we
Might fare at length within his home to be,
Traced in the light of his divinity,
And blinded by the glory of his face?

O strange and unseen land whereto we come,
Are thy shores shores of day, or shores of night?
As we draw near shall we indeed see light,
And shall we hear, through lessening wind and foam,
The voice of her we love sound from the land,
And, looking shorewards, shall we see her stand
Girt round with glory on a peaceful strand,
Smiling to see our dark skiff heave in sight?

I cannot know; there is no man who knows.
We are, and we are not, — and that is all
The knowledge which to any may befall;
We know not life's beginning, nor life's close, —
'Twixt dawn and twilight shine the sunny hours
Wherein some hands pluck thorns and some hands flowers;
'Twixt light and shade are shed the sudden showers;
Yet night shall cover earth as with a pall.

Sadder than all thou art, O song of mine,
Because thou callest vainly on her name;
Because thou fain wouldst rise, and sudden flame
Before God's face and her face most divine,

And tell her of the bitter grief we feel,
And pray her by some sweet sign to reveal
The land which God and darkness so conceal, —
Say where our sorrows lead and whence they came.

O saddest of sad songs by sad lips sung,
Fresh hopes may rise, fresh passions snake-like hiss,
Or fresh illusions find fresh rods to kiss;
But joy is fleet, and memory is long, —
And on the fair sweet reaches of the past,
Lovely and still, for evermore is cast
A sad and sacred light which shall outlast
The fierce and short-lived glare of summer bliss.

Alas, poor song, all singing is in vain;
What thing more sad is left for thee to say?
Oh, weary time of life, and weary way,
Can dead souls rise, or lost joys live again?
Now by the hand of sorrow are we led;
Though sweet things come, they come as joys born dead:
Let us arise, go hence, for all is said,
And we must bide the breaking of the day.

University of Virginia Library

IN GRIEF.