"HER EYES ARE BLUEBELLS NOW"
Her eyes are bluebells now, her voice a bird,
And the long sighing grass her elegy;
She who a woman was is now a star
In the high heaven shining down on me.
"THE DEAD AROSE"
The dead arose. Long had they dreamed,
Deep in the grass of the still grave,
Of meeting their beloved once more.
They knocked at each familiar door.
They waited eagerly to see
The old loved faces at the door,
They waited for a voice to say
The same old words it said before—
They knocked at each familiar door.
But no one answered to the dead,
No voice of welcome, no kind word!
Only a little flower came out,
And one small elegiac bird.
"THE BLOOM UPON THE GRAPE"
The bloom upon the grape I ask no more,
Nor pampered fragrance of the soft-lipped rose,
I only ask of Him who keeps the Door—
To open it for one who fearless goes
Into the dark, from which, reluctant, came
His innocent heart, a little laughing flame;
I only ask that he who gave me sight,
Who gave me hearing and who gave me breath,
Give me the last gift in His flaming hand—
The holy gift of Death.
THE FRIEND
Through the dark wood
There came to me a friend,
Bringing in his cold hands
Two words—'The End.'
His face was fair
As fading autumn flowers,
And the lost joy
Of unforgotten hours.
His voice was sweet
As rain upon a grave;
'Be brave,' he smiled.
And yet again—'be brave.'