Yet what is left
To us bereft,
Save these remains,
Which now the moth
Will fret, or swifter fire consume?
These inky stains
On his table-cloth;
These prints that decked his room;
His throne, this ragged easy-chair;
This battered pipe, his councillor.
This is the sum and inventory.
No son he left to tell his story,
No gold, no lands, no fame, no book.
Yet one of us, his heirs, who took
The impress of his brain and heart
May gain from Heaven the lucky art
His untold meanings to impart
In words that will not soon decay.
Then gratefully will such one say:
"This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine;
The breath that gave it life was thine."
HUGH LATIMER
His lips amid the flame outsent
A music strong and sweet,
Like some unearthly instrument
That's played upon by heat.
As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal,
Sets all its perfume free,
The incense of his hardy soul
Rose up exceedingly.
To open that great flower, too cold
Were sun and vernal rain;
But fire has forced it to unfold,
Nor will it shut again.
CARÇAMON
His steed was old, his armor worn,
And he was old and worn and gray:
The light that lit his patient eyes
It shone from very far away.
Through gay Provence he journeyed on;
To one high quest his life was true,
And so they called him Carçamon—
The knight who seeketh the world through.