The Heritage

    Your cold philosophies that give no hint

    Of spirit-quickened flesh； fall down and pray

    That Death come never with a face of flint：

    Death is our heritage； with Life we share

    The sunlight that must own his darkening hour：

    Within his very presence yet we dare

    To gather gladness like a fading flower.

    For even as this our joy not long may live

    Perfect； and most in change the heart can trace

    The miracle of life and human things：

    All we have held to destiny we give；

    Dawn glimmers¹ on the soul-forsaken face；

    Not we but others hear the bird that sings.