Envoi

When the spark that glittered

flakes into ash,

and the spirit unfettered

is done with flesh,

when all that wonder,

this loveliness

of heart lies under

the sleepy grass,

and slow are the swift,

and dark the fair,

and sweet voices lift,

not on the air,

when the long spell

of dust lies on

all that was well

bethought upon,

of all that lovely,

of all those brief

hopes that went bravely

beyond belief,

of life's deep blazon

with love's gold stain

passing all reason

doth aught remain?

What need of answer?

Bird chaunting priest,

dawn swings her censer

of bloom-white mist,

noon from her shoulder

lets her sun-shawl

half loose, half hold her,

and drifing fall,

and evening slowly

by hill and wood

perfects her holy

solitude,

unasked, undaunted

by love, or what

the heart has wanted,

and wanteth not.

Unasked? Say rather

that these will startle

tomorrow other

hearts with mortal

beauty they had

from us, as we

inherited

that legacy.

Undaunted? Yes,

since death can lend

to loveliness

only an end

that with the beginning

is one designed,

one shape, one meaning

beyond the mind.