Doubtless could he have spoken for whom that rain Of teardrops fell, “How strange your sad words are!” He would have said; “In fuller measure far All that life gave to me I still retain; Love have I now which no dark longings mar, Fame void of strife, and wisdom free from pain.”
O sweetest month, that pourest from full hands The golden bounty of rich harvest lands! O saddest month, that bearest with thy breath The crimson leaves to drifts of glowing death!
In fields and lives, the fall of withered leaves Darkens the glorious season of ripe sheaves, For Life’s fruition comes with loss and pain, And Death alone can bring the richest gain.
Thanking God for life and light, Strength and joyous breath, Should we not, with reverent lips, Thank Him, too, for death?
When would man’s injustice cease, Did not stern Death bring Those who cheated and oppressed To their reckoning?
Would not life’s long sordidness On our spirits pall, If our years should last forever, And the earth were all?
On us, withered with life’s heat, Falls death’s cooling dew, And our parched souls’ dusty leaves Their lost green renew.
Ah, though deep the grave-dust hide Love and courage high, Life a paltrier thing would be If we could not die!
If our dead could come back to us, Who so desire it, And be as they were before, Would we require it?
Would we bid them share again Our weakness, foregoing All their higher blessedness Of being and knowing?
For them the triumph is won, The fight completed; Do we wish that the doubtful strife Should be repeated?
Would we call them from the calm Of all assurance To the perils that might prove Past their endurance?
God is kind, since He will not heed Our bitter yearning, And the gates of heaven are shut ’Gainst all returning.
When a hundred years have passed, What shall then be left at last Of us and the deeds we wrought? Shall there be remaining aught Save green graves in churchyards old, Names o’ergrown with moss and mold, From the worn stones half effaced, And from human hearts erased?
When a hundred years have fled, Will it matter how we sped In the conflicts of to-day, Which side took we in the fray, If we dared or if we quailed, If we nobly won or failed? It will matter! If, too weak For the right to strike or speak, We in virtue’s cause are dumb, Some soul in far years to come Shall have darker strife with vice, Weakened by our cowardice. Every struggle that we make, Every valiant stand we take In a righteous cause forlorn, Shall give strength to hearts unborn.