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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
45
AT REST
I heard the dead man, where he lay
Within the open coffin, say:—
Within the open coffin, say:—
“Why do they come to weep and cry
Around me now?—Because I lie
So silent, and my heart's at rest?
Because the pistons of my blood
No more in this machinery thud?
And on these eyes, that once were blessed
With magnetism and fire, are pressed
The soldered eyelids, like a sheath?
On which the icy hand of Death
Hath laid invisible coins of lead
Stamped with the image of his head?
Around me now?—Because I lie
So silent, and my heart's at rest?
Because the pistons of my blood
No more in this machinery thud?
And on these eyes, that once were blessed
With magnetism and fire, are pressed
The soldered eyelids, like a sheath?
On which the icy hand of Death
Hath laid invisible coins of lead
Stamped with the image of his head?
“Why will they weep and not have done?
Why sorrow so? and all for one,
Who, they believe, hath found the best
God gives to us,—and that is rest.
Why grieve?—Yea, rather let them lift
The voice in thanks for such a gift,
That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,
And weary feet, that sought and sought,
At peace; and makes what came to naught,
In life, more real now than all
The good men strive for here on Earth:
The love they seek; the things they call
Desirable and full of worth;
Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,
The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,
And heart's sad barrenness.—God's rest,
With every sigh and every tear,
By them who weep above me here,
Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed
A doubt; a thing to dread and fear.
Why sorrow so? and all for one,
Who, they believe, hath found the best
God gives to us,—and that is rest.
Why grieve?—Yea, rather let them lift
46
That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,
And weary feet, that sought and sought,
At peace; and makes what came to naught,
In life, more real now than all
The good men strive for here on Earth:
The love they seek; the things they call
Desirable and full of worth;
Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,
The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,
And heart's sad barrenness.—God's rest,
With every sigh and every tear,
By them who weep above me here,
Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed
A doubt; a thing to dread and fear.
“Before them peacefully I lie.
But, haply, not for me they sigh,
But for themselves,—their loss. The round
Of daily labor still to do
For them, while for myself 'tis through;
And all the unknown, too, is found,
The bourn for which all hopes are bound,
Where dreams are all made manifest:
For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;
Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,
Not joy;—and yet, we can not tell,
We do not know, we can not prove,
We only feel that there is love,
And something we call Heaven and Hell.
But, haply, not for me they sigh,
But for themselves,—their loss. The round
Of daily labor still to do
For them, while for myself 'tis through;
And all the unknown, too, is found,
The bourn for which all hopes are bound,
Where dreams are all made manifest:
For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;
Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,
Not joy;—and yet, we can not tell,
47
We only feel that there is love,
And something we call Heaven and Hell.
“Howbeit, here, you see, I lie,
As all shall lie—for all must die—
A cast-off, useless, empty shell,
In which an essence once did dwell;
That once, like fruit, the spirit held,
And with its husk of flesh compelled:
The mask of mind, the world of will,
That laughed and wept and labored till
The thing within, that never slept,
The life essential, from it stept;
The ichor-veined inhabitant
Who made it all it was; in all
Its aims the thing original,
That held its course, like any star,
Among its fellows; or a plant,
Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,—
The same and yet dissimilar,—
Distinct and individual,
It grew to microcosmic bloom.”
As all shall lie—for all must die—
A cast-off, useless, empty shell,
In which an essence once did dwell;
That once, like fruit, the spirit held,
And with its husk of flesh compelled:
The mask of mind, the world of will,
That laughed and wept and labored till
The thing within, that never slept,
The life essential, from it stept;
The ichor-veined inhabitant
Who made it all it was; in all
Its aims the thing original,
That held its course, like any star,
Among its fellows; or a plant,
Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,—
The same and yet dissimilar,—
Distinct and individual,
It grew to microcosmic bloom.”
These were the words the dead man said
To me who stood beside the dead.
To me who stood beside the dead.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |