At the Funeral of a Minor Poet

    。 . . Room in your heart for him， O Mother Earth，

    Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair，

    And sang your praise in verses manifold

    And delicate， with here and there a line

    From end to end in blossom like a bough¹

    The May breathes on， so rich it was. Some thought

    The workmanship more costly² than the thing

    Moulded or carved， as in those ornaments³

    Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self

    Works in this wise； upon a blade of grass，

    Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush，

    Lavishing⁴ endless patience. He was born

    Artist， not artisan， which some few saw

    And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes

    When Croesus wedded⁵ or Maecenas died，

    And gave no breath to civic⁶ feasts and shows，

    He missed the glare that gilds⁷ more facile men——

    A twilight⁸ poet， groping quite alone，

    Belated， in a sphere where every nest

    Is emptied of its music and its wings.

    Not great his gift； yet we can poorly spare

    Even his slight perfection in an age

    Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux.

    He had at least ideals， though unreached，

    And heard， far off， immortal⁹ harmonies，

    Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day.

    The mighty¹⁰ Zolaistic Movement now

    Engrosses¹¹ us——a miasmatic¹² breath

    Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is，

    The hideous¹³ side of it， with careful pains，

    Making a god of the dull Commonplace.

    For have we not the old gods overthrown¹⁴

    And set up strangest idols¹⁵？ We could clip

    Imagination's wing and kill delight，

    Our sole art being to leave nothing out

    That renders art offensive. Not for us

    Madonnas leaning from their starry¹⁶ thrones

    Ineffable¹⁷， nor any heaven-wrought dream

    Of sculptor¹⁸ or of poet； we prefer

    Such nightmare visions as in morbid¹⁹ brains

    Take shape and substance， thoughts that taint²⁰ the air

    And make all life unlovely. Will it last？

    Beauty alone endures from age to age，

    From age to age endures， handmaid of God.

    Poets who walk with her on earth go hence

    Bearing a talisman²¹. You bury one，

    With his hushed music， in some Potter's Field；

    The snows and rains blot²² out his very name，

    As he from life seems blotted²³： through Time's glass

    Slip the invisible and magic sands

    That mark the century， then falls a day

    The world is suddenly conscious of a flower，

    Imperishable， ever to be prized，

    Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave.

    'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms

    And hieroglyphics²⁴ of Egyptian kings

    Hold strange vitality²⁵， and， planted， grow

    After the lapse²⁶ of thrice a thousand years.

    Some day， perchance， some unregarded note

    Of our poor friend here——some sweet minor²⁷ chord

    That failed to lure²⁸ our more accustomed ear——

    May witch the fancy of an unborn age.

    Who knows， since seeds have such tenacity²⁹？

    Meanwhile he's dead， with scantiest³⁰ laurel won

    And little of our Nineteenth Century gold.

    So， take him， Earth， and this his mortal part，

    With that shrewd alchemy thou hast， transmute³¹

    To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs！