O Death, the Consecrator!

Nothing so sanctifies a name

As to be written--Dead.

Nothing so wins a life from blame,

So covers it from wrath and shame,

As doth the burial-bed.

Joy is good--the angel's food.

The poor know well what wealth can do--

The rich their happiest chances miss;

We sit too close to grasp the view,

Or stand too far to feel the bliss.

And unto them too, souls are born,

Those wondrous things, so slowly wrought,

That breathes a subtler thing in air,

And daily at the altar fare

Upon the living bread of thought.

A heart is that which opens

To trouble's thousand ways;

An unseen arrow wounds it,

To halt through all its days.

An evil eye may scatter blight,

A flitting mite may sting;

No wonder that a heartache

Is such a common thing!

That life is brief hath seemed a piteous thing

Since the first mortal watched it glide away.

And sad it is that flowers have but one day,

And sad that birds have little time to sing;

That joy is fleeting as the bloom of Spring;

That youth so soon is startled from its play,

And manhood from its labor, to essay

The old vain struggle with the shadowy King.

But sadder far it is that life is long;

Ay, long enough for bliss to turn to bale,

For innocence to lose the dread of wrong,

For hearts to harden, love itself to fail;

And faith be wearied out (O, sad and strange!)

Unless Death save us from the deathly change.

Joy's the shyest bird

Mortal ever heard;

Listen rapt and silent while he sings;

Do not seek to see,

Less the vision be

But a flutter of departing wings.

What are the days but islands,

So many little islands,

And sleep the sea of silence,

That flows about them all?

To find love round your ways,

A shield in evil days;

A robe that keeps you warm,

As ermine, from the storm;

To wear it as a jewel-flame,

A cross of honor, with a royal name;

To sit a queen, unmoved

By want or grief--this is to be beloved.

Each for himself creates the world in which he dwells.

Time puts out all other flames

But the glory of his eyes;

His are all the sacred names,

His the solemn mysteries.

Crown him! In his darkest day,

He has heaven to give away!

Where sorrow lieth buried

The greenest herbage springs.

Fairer than all fancies is the truth.