And always there was silence at the end,
For something that beguiled us with the thought
Of presences returning, friend to friend.
Seeking again the fellowship they sought,
Pleased that we sing old songs they still may know,
Who sang with us, or listened, long ago.
SYMBOL
My faith is all a doubtful thing,
Wove on a doubtful loom,—
Until there comes, each showery Spring,
A cherry-tree in bloom;
And Christ who died upon a tree
That death had stricken bare,
Comes beautifully back to me,
In blossoms, everywhere.
TO AN UNKNOWN ANCESTOR
Among the goodly folk whose name I bear,
Men of the plough, the priesthood, and the mill,
Whose whispered wisdom follows where I fare,
With ghostly promptings that must haunt me still,—
What place was there for you, whose different fame
Delighted, once, the Don Juans of the town?
The family annals have forgot your name,
And time at last has hushed your gay renown.