The Great War

from Great Poems of the World War, an electronic edition

A Dirge

THOUGH art no longer here,

No longer shall we see thy face.

But, in that other place,

Where may be heard

The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the stars;

And the silver bars

Of heaven's gate

Shine soft and clear:

Thou mayest wait.

No longer shall we see

Thee walking in the crowded streets,

But where the ocean of the Future beats

Against the flood--gates of the Present, swirling to this earth,

Another birth

Thou mayest have;

Another Arcady

May thee receive.

Not here thou dost remain

Thou art gone far away,

Where, at the portals of the day,

The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern--footed throng,

While time looks on,

And seraphs stand

Choiring an endless strain

On either hand.

Thou canst return no more;

Not as the happy time of spring

Comes after winter burgeoning

On wood and vo1d in folds of living green, for thou art dead.

Our tears we shed

In vain, for thou

Dost pace another shore,

Untroubled now.