His day's work done, with the last rune
Of a Hammurabi fragment read,
He took some water spiced with prune
And soda, which imbibed, he said
A Syrian prayer, and went to bed.
* * * * * * * *
And thus he trod life's narrow way,—
His soul as peaceful as a river—
His understanding heart all day
Kept faithful to a stagnant liver.
L'ENVOI.
When at last his stomach went by default,
His graduate students bore him afar
To the East where the Dead Sea waters are,
And pickled his bones in Eternal Salt.
Ode to December, 1917
Was ever night so wild as this—this bleak December night!
Veiled in the sombre shroud that sepulchred the day;
Why thus bereft of heaven's beams, of moon and starry light,
Are all its ancient charms in sorrow laid away?
The year dies out with drifted leaves, with winds
and floods of rain,
Companions of the tempest with its brood of fears;
And voices far above us echo back the world's great pain,
In tongueless language inarticulate through tears.
Why passed with such inevitable speed
The eager splendor of the awakening spring?
So little did it seem to know or heed
Our outward cries, our hidden murmuring;
It shone upon us shyly for some reason,
Then flew into the summer's briefer season,
And found, amidst its roses fully blown,
A transient radiance fleeter than its own.