The world was noble, now its sordid casement
Glows but with garish folly, and the plains
Of rich achievement lie in mean abasement--
Ah, Hope is only midwife to our pains!
When one forgets, but maimed rites come after:
To mourn, be priest, be sexton, bear the pall,
Remembrance-robed, the while a distant laughter
Proclaims Love's ghost--what wonder skies should fall,
When one forgets!
ALOES AND MYRRH
Dead, with the dew on your brow,
Dead, with the may in your face,
Dead: and here, true to my vow,
I, who have won in the race,
Weave you a chaplet of song
Wet with the spray and the rime
Blown from your love that was strong--
Stronger than Time.
August it was, and the sun
Streamed through the pines of the west;
There were two then--there is one;
Flown is the bird from the nest;
And it is August again,
But, from this uttermost sea,
Rises the mist of my pain--
You are set free.
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