Destroyers and Other Verses/Died of His Wounds

by Henry Head

 

DIED OF HIS WOUNDS

Death set his mark and left a mangled thing,
With palsied limbs no science could restore,
To weary out the weeks or months or years,
Amidst the tumult of a mother's tears
Behind the sick-room door,
Where tender skill and subtle knowledge bring
Brief respite only from the ultimate
Decree of fate.

Then, like the flowers we planted in his room,
Bud after bud we watched his soul unfold;
Each delicate bloom
Of alabaster, violet, and gold
Struggled to light,
Drawing its vital breath
Within the pallid atmosphere of death.

That valiant spirit has not passed away,
But lives and grows
Within us as a penetrating ray
Of sunshine on a crystal surface glows
With many-hued refraction. He has fled
Into the unknown silence of the night,
But cannot die till human hearts are dead.