Part 26 (1/2)

A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, -- Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation?

Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress.

Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success.

As in the Midst of Battle there is Room. [George Santayana]

As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom.

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind.

Ex Libris. [Arthur Upson]

In an old book at even as I read Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, I crossed a tale of how, in other age, At Arqua, with his books around him, sped The word to Petrarch; and with n.o.ble head Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage To Silence paid his willing seigniorage.

And they who found him whispered, ”He is dead!”

Thus timely from old comrades.h.i.+ps would I To Silence also rise. Let there be night, Stillness, and only these staid watchers by, And no light s.h.i.+ne save my low study light -- Lest of his kind intent some human cry Interpret not the Messenger aright.

The Poet. [Mildred McNeal Sweeney]

Himself is least afraid When the singing lips in the dust With all mute lips are laid.

For thither all men must.

Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song Upon the faithful air And given it speed -- is strong That last strange hour to dare, Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time That greater self shall pa.s.s, And wear its eager prime And lend the youth it has Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest And now -- his word gone forth -- May have his perfect rest Low in the tender earth, The wind across his breast.

When I have gone Weird Ways. [John G. Neihardt]