An Afterword

To G. B. R.

Brother, the world above you Is very fair to-day, And all things seem to love you The old accustomed way.

Here in the heavenly weather In June’s white arms you sleep, Where once on the hills together Your haunts you used to keep.

The idling sun that lazes Along the open field And gossips to the daisies Of secrets unrevealed;

The wind that stirs the grasses A moment, and then stills Their trouble as he passes Up to the darkling hills,--

And to the breezy clover Has many things to say Of that unwearied rover Who once went by this way;

The miles of elm-treed meadows; The clouds that voyage on, Streeling their noiseless shadows From countries of the sun;

The tranquil river reaches And the pale stars of dawn; The thrushes in their beeches For reverie withdrawn;

With all your forest fellows In whom the blind heart calls, For whom the green leaf yellows, On whom the red leaf falls;

The dumb and tiny creatures Of flower and blade and sod, That dimly wear the features And attributes of God;

The airy migrant comers On gauzy wings of fire, Those wanderers and roamers Of indefinite desire;

The rainbirds and all dwellers In solitude and peace, Those lingerers and foretellers Of infinite release;

Yea, all the dear things living That rove or bask or swim, Remembering and misgiving, Have felt the day grow dim.

Even the glad things growing, Blossom and fruit and stem, Are poorer for your going Because you were of them.

Yet since you loved to cherish Their pleading beauty here, Your heart shall not quite perish In all the golden year;

But God’s great dream above them Must be a tinge less pale, Because you lived to love them And make their joy prevail.