I am among the careless dead
Who do not rise to see
Why I should hurry through their flowers
Beneath their willow tree,
Nor lift their hands from off their breasts
To beckon me.
But though I run so lightly through
The myrtle's rambling mass,
And though my feet step silently
Above the blowing grass.
And though they do not stir or speak —
They know I pass.
He lives his lonely life, and when he dies
A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs ;
Because they liked his songs, and now their bird
Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard.
But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring
Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing ?
Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come
To lie with him inside that silent tomb ?
And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed
A tear because a loving heart is dead ?
Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs —
And let his death bring tears to no one's eyes.
I FEEL the Spring far off, far off,
The faint far scent of bud and leaf--
Oh how can Spring take heart to come
To a world in grief,
Deep grief?
The sun turns north, the days grow long,
Later the evening star grows bright--
How can the daylight linger on
For men to fight,
Still fight?
The grass is waking in the ground,
Soon it will rise and blow in waves--
How can it have the heart to sway
Over the graves,
New graves?
Under the boughs where lovers walked
This is the debt I pay
Just for one riotous day,
Years of regret and grief,
Sorrow without relief.
Pay it I will to the end--
Until the grave, my friend,
Gives me a true release--
Gives me the clasp of peace.
Slight was the thing I bought,
Small was the debt I thought,
Poor was the loan at best--
God! but the interest!
The ruins of your face were twined with youth.
Vines of starlight questioned your face when you smiled.
Your eyes dissolved over distances
And steeped the graves of many loves.
Night was kind to your body:
The careless vehemence of curves
Softened beneath your darkly-loosened dress.
And your heart toyed with an emotion
That left you vague hunger poised over death.
She has attained the permanence
She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.
Untended stalks blow over her
Even and swift, like young men running.
Always in the heart she loved
Others had lived, — she heard their laughter.
She lies where none has lain before,
Where certainly none will follow after.
I HEARD the poplars of Saint John’s
Letting their small notes go,
Like silver dropping through a sieve,
Down to the graves below.
The rector had that moment died;
His house stood there apart,
A look about it as though one
Had struck it to the heart.
The shepherd of a straggling flock.
Quick-spoken, easy, sound.
No truer man had ever lived
In the old country round.
I heard the poplars of Saint John’s
Making such music there,
As it were silver worn to thread
Dropped down a silver air.
This is the day of dauntless memories,
Hours that live turn back to deathless hours,
But sheltered in my heart there lies,
As in a grave,
A memory serene and brave
That needs no flowers.
No valiant tale to stir the blood to wine —
Dear enemy that struck at me and fled! —
And yet the victory was mine.
As mine the pain,
And still my heart resounds its gain,
Its cherished dead.
Who buys land buys many stones,
Who buys flesh buys many bones;
Who buys eggs buys many shells,
Who buys love buys nothing else.
Love is a burr upon the floor,
Love is a thief behind the door;
Who loves leman for her breath
May quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a bridle, love is a load,
Love is a thorn upon the road;
Love is the fly that flits its hour,
Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a net, love is a snare,
Love is a bubble blown with air;
Love starts hot, and waning cold,
Is withered in the grave's mould!
Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth,
Yardstick that covered me,
I wonder do you hop of nights
Out to the still hill-cemetery,
And up and down go measuring
A clayey grave for me?
From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)
I hope when I am dead that I shall lie
In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why,
But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot
Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.
There lying I should taste with my dead breath
The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death;
And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate,
The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state.
To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears
That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears;
There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless
Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness.
No greater earthly boon than this I crave,
That those who some day gather 'round my grave,
In place of tears, may whisper of me then,
"He sang a song that reached the hearts of men."