Closing Chords

Death's Eloquence When I shall go Into the narrow home that leaves No room for wringing of the hands and hair, And feel the pressing of the walls which bear The heavy sod upon my heart that grieves, (As the weird earth rolls on), Then I shall know What is the power of destiny. But still, Still while my life, however sad, be mine, I war with memory, striving to divine Phantom to-morrows, to outrun the past; For yet the tears of final, absolute ill And ruinous knowledge of my fate I shun. Even as the frail, instinctive weed Tries, through unending shade, to reach at last A shining, mellowing, rapture-giving sun; So in the deed of breathing joy's warm breath, Fain to succeed, I, too, in colorless longings, hope till death. Peace An angel spoke with me, and lo, he hoarded My falling tears to cheer a flower's face! For, so it seems, in all the heavenly space A wasted grief was never yet recorded. Victorious calm those holy tones afforded Unto my soul, whose outcry, in disgrace, Changed to low music, leading to the place Where, though well armed, with futile end awarded, My past lay dead. "Wars are of earth!" he cried; "Endurance only breathes immortal air. Courage eternal, by a world defied, Still wears the front of patience, smooth and fair." Are wars so futile, and is courage peace? Take, then, my soul, thus gently thy release!