Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE LIVING DEAD. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE LIVING DEAD.
They are not dead, they cannot die—
They cannot die,
If low their frames in ashes lie;
For nought can loose the spirit tie,
Which links in more than marriage bond
This death-like life and life beyond
That is not dead,
Though it has fled
And we who linger may despond,
Who hunger for the golden head—
The golden tresses
And caresses,
That mixed with ours like woven fire,
The heart's delight, the mind's desire;
They are not dead, it cannot be,
And spirit evermore must live
However far and fugitive;
And yet again these eyes shall see
The clinging hands
Not now to meet,
Whose clasp was sweet,
As soft commands,
And little feet—
And little feet.
They cannot die,
If low their frames in ashes lie;
For nought can loose the spirit tie,
Which links in more than marriage bond
This death-like life and life beyond
That is not dead,
Though it has fled
And we who linger may despond,
Who hunger for the golden head—
The golden tresses
And caresses,
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The heart's delight, the mind's desire;
They are not dead, it cannot be,
And spirit evermore must live
However far and fugitive;
And yet again these eyes shall see
The clinging hands
Not now to meet,
Whose clasp was sweet,
As soft commands,
And little feet—
And little feet.
Ah, nought can quench the spirit life,
The spirit life
That yields to vulgar toil and strife,
Wherewith this weary world is rife,
A portion of its inmost grace
And overflows on earth a space,
And lends the eyes
The light of skies,
That breaks like sunrise on the face
And only like the sunset flies.
If we go mating,
They keep waiting
In other lands for our lost love,
Which draws them oft from Heaven above;
They do not die, it cannot be;
For spirits wonderful and white
Are as the Maker infinite
And flit through æons fair and free.
But yet we miss
Your tender tread
And welcome shed
In looks that kiss,
Ye living dead,
Ye living dead.
The spirit life
That yields to vulgar toil and strife,
Wherewith this weary world is rife,
A portion of its inmost grace
And overflows on earth a space,
And lends the eyes
The light of skies,
That breaks like sunrise on the face
And only like the sunset flies.
If we go mating,
They keep waiting
In other lands for our lost love,
Which draws them oft from Heaven above;
They do not die, it cannot be;
For spirits wonderful and white
Are as the Maker infinite
And flit through æons fair and free.
But yet we miss
Your tender tread
And welcome shed
In looks that kiss,
Ye living dead,
Ye living dead.
The spirit world, that only lives,
That only lives,
Which of its deathless beauty gives
The dew of God's best donatives
To all—the maiden's magic 'tire,
The thought like some cathedral spire,
The march of men
With godlike ken,
The primal pulsing cloud of fire,
The dream in stone, the poet's pen.
O they are twining
Dear refining
Threads of a subtle sunshine round,
Wherewith our very souls are wound.
From every height, from every deep,
Within our cradles, at our graves,
Their ministries like ocean waves
Bathe these poor hearts with blessed sweep.
For faithful still
With presence fair
As evening air,
They always fill
The empty chair—
The empty chair.
That only lives,
Which of its deathless beauty gives
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To all—the maiden's magic 'tire,
The thought like some cathedral spire,
The march of men
With godlike ken,
The primal pulsing cloud of fire,
The dream in stone, the poet's pen.
O they are twining
Dear refining
Threads of a subtle sunshine round,
Wherewith our very souls are wound.
From every height, from every deep,
Within our cradles, at our graves,
Their ministries like ocean waves
Bathe these poor hearts with blessed sweep.
For faithful still
With presence fair
As evening air,
They always fill
The empty chair—
The empty chair.
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