Wail of the Wandering Dead

Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream,
Fold the worn hands and close the sinking lids.

There is no new road for the dead to take: Wild hearts are we among the worlds astray. Wild hearts are we that cannot wholly break, But linger on though life has gone away.

We are the sons of Misery and Eld:

Come, tender Death, with all your hushing
wings,

And let our broken spirits be dispelled-
Let dead men sink into the dusk of things.

Teach me, Father, how to go
Softly as the grasses grow;

Hush my soul to meet the shock
Of the wild world as a rock;
But my spirit, propt with power,
Make as simple as a flower.
Let the dry heart fill its cup,
Like a poppy looking up;

Let life lightly wear her crown,
Like a poppy looking down,

When its heart is filled with dew,
And its life begins anew.

A Prayer

Teach me, Father, how to be
Kind and patient as a tree.
Joyfully the crickets croon

Under shady oak at noon;
Beetle, on his mission bent,
Tarries in that cooling tent.
Let me, also, cheer a spot,
Hidden field or garden grot-
Place where passing souls can rest
On the way and be their best.

His home is in the heights: to him
Men wage a battle weird and dim,
Life is a mission stern as fate,
And Song a dread apostolate.
The toils of prophecy are his,
To hail the coming centuries-
To ease the steps and lift the load
Of souls that falter on the road.
The perilous music that he hears
Falls from the vortice of the spheres.

The Poet

He presses on before the race,
And sings out of a silent place.
Like faint notes of a forest bird
On heights afar that voice is heard;
And the dim path he breaks to-day
Will some time be a trodden way.

But when the race comes toiling on
That voice of wonder will be gone.
Be heard on higher peaks afar,
Moved upward with the morning star.

O men of earth, that wandering voice Still goes the upward way: rejoice!