The rainbirds and all dwellers
In solitude and peace,
Those lingerers and foretellers
Of infinite release;
Yea, all the dear things living
That rove or bask or swim,
Remembering and misgiving,
Have felt the day grow dim.
Even the glad things growing,
Blossom and fruit and stem,
Are poorer for your going
Because you were of them.
Yet since you loved to cherish
Their pleading beauty here,
Your heart shall not quite perish
In all the golden year;
But God’s great dream above them
Must be a tinge less pale,
Because you lived to love them
And make their joy prevail.
SEVEN WIND SONGS
Now these are the seven wind songs
For Andrew Straton’s death,
Blown through the reeds of the river,
A sigh of the world’s last breath,
Where the flickering red auroras
Out on the dark sweet hills
Follow all night through the forest
The cry of the whip-poor-wills.
For the meanings of life are many,
But the purpose of love is one,
Journeying, tarrying, lonely
As the sea wind or the sun.