A CHANT TO DEATH
When the bright sunrise slants across the hillsAnd every peak is like a golden towerWhere some glad face looks East to meet the day,My heart leaps strong with thankfulness for dawn,Singing like Memnon in the sands of oldFor fresh hope and new promise. And when noonPoises the far sun midway in his courseI joy in space for working; for an hourIn which to shape my hidden thought a formBefore my fellows, that my dream may liveWhen I am brother to the silent dust.And when night’s shadow folds the weary earth,With all her burden of tired hearts that pray,Best of life’s gifts, sleep and forgetfulness,One boon alone I crave of heaven, rest.But most I bow in thankfulness for death;Wise death, kind death, who softly stoops to layAll pitiful a cool hand on the browThat life has fevered with his pitilessStern goading on an ever-fruitless round.Master of Fate, and rest’s own almoner,No angel sable-winged and harsh and cold,No black-robed, hidden-visaged shape art thou,Preying upon the frightened souls of men;But a near friend, whose hand upon our ownTouches to strengthen, and whose shadow isLike the one tree within a sun swept waste.Hope giver, healer, they who would upbraidThy name and coming know not thee nor life;But we who work here in the dark, we know.We know whose name gives courage for the fight;Whose call rings “Forward” down the lagging line.Captained by thee we lift each day the loadTo aching shoulders, take the road once moreWith song and laughter and bugle blownTo straggling comrades: “Look you, man, good cheer!”Who knows? Perhaps tonight we bivouac;Face front, and let us win our rest like men;With tasks well done and nothing scrimped or shirked;Sure that at last we get discharge of LifeAnd serve a gentler master, even Death.