FOR the last time I kissed
The lips of my dearest son,
For the last time looked in his face—
My brave, my beautiful one.
Reaching up to his breast,
But lately as low as my knee,
I felt with my hands in his heart
A shadow I might not see.
Scarce could I bid him farewell,
Scarce to bless him find breath,
For I felt the shape of the shade
And knew 'twas the shadow of death.

Farewells à la Mode

THE limbs she bore and cherished tenderly,
And rocked against her heart, with loving fears,
Through helpless infancy that all endears,
Unto the verge of manhood's empery,
Were fostered for this cruel end, and she
Kneeling beside him, looks through blinding tears
Down the long vista of the lonely years,
Void of all light, drear as eternity.
But her young son, who knows not that he dies,
Gives good-night lightly, on the utmost brink,
And, anguish overmastered for her sake,
Says smiling with stiff lips and death-dimmed eyes,
"Why, Mother, if you kiss me so, I'll think
You'll not be here to-morrow, when I wake."

Sunset

DEAR is young morning's tender-hued attire:
To us and ours, 'stead of that promise, came
A brief and burning sunset, blood and flame,
And, looking on the end of our desire,
Yet said we, "What if fealty to a name
Have built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre?
Their death hath kindled a fair beacon fire
To lighten all this world of fear and shame,
And none shall quench it." As the words were said,
Darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light,
And faded all the surging sea of gold,
And nought was left of the fierce glories fled
But ashen skies slow deepening into night,
Lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold.