Away

I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead—. He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you—O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return—, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes—. Mild and gentle, as he was brave—, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things—: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed: When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain—. Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead—he is just away!