apparitions, concepts, non-realities.)
The Pallid Wreath
Somehow I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is, Let it remain back there on its nail suspended, With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch’d, and the white now gray and ashy, One wither’d rose put years ago for thee, dear friend; But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded? Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead? No, while memories subtly play—the past vivid as ever; For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring saw thee, Thy smile, eyes, face, calm, silent, loving as ever: So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach, It is not yet dead to me, nor even pallid.
An Ended Day
The soothing sanity and blitheness of completion, The pomp and hurried contest-glare and rush are done; Now triumph! transformation! jubilate!
Old Age’s Ship & Crafty Death’s
From east and west across the horizon’s edge, Two mighty masterful vessels sailers steal upon us: But we’ll make race a-time upon the seas—a battle-contest yet! bear lively there! (Our joys of strife and derring-do to the last!) Put on the old ship all her power to-day! Crowd top-sail, top-gallant and royal studding-sails, Out challenge and defiance—flags and flaunting pennants added, As we take to the open—take to the deepest, freest waters.