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 tearsBehind the sick-room door,Where tender skill and subtle knowledge bringBrief respite only from the ultimateDecree of fate.

Then, like the flowers we planted in his room,Bud after bud we watched his soul unfold;Each delicate bloomOf alabaster, violet, and goldStruggled to light,Drawing its vital breathWithin the pallid atmosphere of death.

That valiant spirit has not passed away,But lives and growsWithin us as a penetrating rayOf sunshine on a crystal surface glowsWith many-hued refraction. He has fledInto the unknown silence of the night,But cannot die till human hearts are dead.