 | Country muse |  |
108
THE HAPPY DEAD
Some lie in their spices and linen unshrunken,
Their weariness, wonder, and waiting are past;
They feel not the cold and their cheeks are scarce sunken,
They dream of a light that may wake them at last;
But though it should shine not, these figures repine not,
They sleep in their peace with the world overhead;
And who shall disturb them, or who shall perturb them?
Yea, they are the happy ones, they who are dead.
Their weariness, wonder, and waiting are past;
They feel not the cold and their cheeks are scarce sunken,
They dream of a light that may wake them at last;
But though it should shine not, these figures repine not,
They sleep in their peace with the world overhead;
And who shall disturb them, or who shall perturb them?
Yea, they are the happy ones, they who are dead.
I turn me away from the noise of the street filled
With footfalls of merchants and faces of thieves;
My treasure-house stands in the gold of the wheat-field,
My books are the bushes with millions of leaves.
The poppy stares up in my face as she bears up
Her sleep-giving cup of imperial red,
But Death could enchant me far more would he plant me
Too deep down for poppies, dead dust with the dead.
With footfalls of merchants and faces of thieves;
My treasure-house stands in the gold of the wheat-field,
109
The poppy stares up in my face as she bears up
Her sleep-giving cup of imperial red,
But Death could enchant me far more would he plant me
Too deep down for poppies, dead dust with the dead.
The nuts slip their leashes and couch in the mosses,
The over-ripe berry falls into the pond;
The butterfly's floating magnificence crosses
Our lawn for a moment, then flutters beyond:
And likewise we flutter a moment, and utter
The laugh and the moan that together are wed;
But tho' we must weep well, God give we may sleep well
Deep down in the silences next to the dead.
The over-ripe berry falls into the pond;
The butterfly's floating magnificence crosses
Our lawn for a moment, then flutters beyond:
And likewise we flutter a moment, and utter
The laugh and the moan that together are wed;
But tho' we must weep well, God give we may sleep well
Deep down in the silences next to the dead.
110
Come, Merciful Sleep, where the balmy wind passes
Not far from the slopes where anemones grow;
Perchance I shall learn the soft secret of grasses,
And hear when the world's heart begins to beat slow.
But set up no token, and leave me unspoken—
My name and my virtues and aught I have said;
The few who have kissed me, and she who has missed me,
Need nothing to guide them to where I am dead.
Not far from the slopes where anemones grow;
Perchance I shall learn the soft secret of grasses,
And hear when the world's heart begins to beat slow.
But set up no token, and leave me unspoken—
My name and my virtues and aught I have said;
The few who have kissed me, and she who has missed me,
Need nothing to guide them to where I am dead.
If bird-dreams and shade-dreams be all unavailing,
Grant slumber in one of the many green graves;
Give peace in sea-gardens spread under ships sailing
Far, far from the shoreward quick tramp of the waves:
Cold comrades to sleep with, but never to weep with,
Stark brides that come down to us sinking as lead:
And well if Time hold us where Ocean has rolled us,
Unmeshed by the drag-net that draws in the dead!
Grant slumber in one of the many green graves;
Give peace in sea-gardens spread under ships sailing
Far, far from the shoreward quick tramp of the waves:
Cold comrades to sleep with, but never to weep with,
Stark brides that come down to us sinking as lead:
And well if Time hold us where Ocean has rolled us,
Unmeshed by the drag-net that draws in the dead!
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