TRUTH: When the tree has full-fruited,
Blessing itself bountifully with the beads of its delight, Shall we deny the falling of its leaves?
POET:
But the pathetic millions are denied any ripeness of age. They know not its sunset meditation, nor the serene reverie of the dusk.
TRUTH: Immaculate Death made falsity.
POET: Supreme artist; unexcelled designer; leveler, destroyer,
creator. I have stood by the death-bed of mothers. Moreover, I have watched the mysterious veil Fall over the face of a child. I have seen strong men shot in battle And in the brawl of mining-camps. Or the gambling-room ; brave men and cowards ; Men who seemed to me mean and unworthy. Yet never have I seen the invisible Sculptor Fail to mould dignity and confer peace. The sublimity of the Great Artificer is infinite ; Of the same passionless bigness as the stars, or the earth,
or trees.
TRUTH: The dying of the Poor is more pitiful than death ; Squalid rooms, foul air ; dirt and rags ; Wailings that the bread-winner is taken, Or whining and sniffling with a secret gladness That a burden has been lifted ; Candles, masses ; funerals ; superstitions ; The cost of food paid unto the dead ;
The price of bread for a pine-box, covered and bedizened. How serene is the one within the box. Contemptuous of its tawdry trappings.
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