Threnody for a Poet

Not in the ancient abbey,

Nor in the city ground,

Not in the lonely mountains,

Nor in the blue profound,

Lay him to rest when his time is come

And the smiling mortal lips are dumb;

But here in the decent quiet

Under the whispering pines,

Where the dogwood breaks in blossom

And the peaceful sunlight shines,

Where wild birds sing and ferns unfold,

When spring comes back in her green and gold.

And when that mortal likeness

Has been dissolved by fire,

Say not above the ashes,

“Here ends a man's desire.”

For every year when the bluebirds sing,

He shall be part of the lyric spring.

Then dreamful-hearted lovers

Shall hear in wind and rain

The cadence of his music,

The rhythm of his refrain,

For he was a blade of the April sod

That bowed and blew with the whisper of God.