Yet Beauty was his passion, and the art
To paint it—that it might not all depart.
He loved the gentlest things; there was a grace
In his sad look surpassing many a face
More beautiful. Ah, back, ye bitter tears!
He, lover of light and gladness, all these years
Fighting twin demons of keen pain and doom;
He, of such humor that the very tomb
Might snatch a brightness from his presence there!
But no; not bright the tomb. We, in despair,
Seek through the world again a charm like this—
That which our friend has taken we shall forever miss.
April, 1898.
"THROUGH ALL THE CUNNING AGES"
Through all the cunning ages
Mankind hath made for man
From out his loves and rages
A god to bless and ban.
When he his foe despises
This god he calls to curse;
And would he win earth's prizes
His praise doth man rehearse.
So, when he craves the guerdon
Of others' land and pelf,
He flings the blame and burden
On this shadow of himself.
If, spite of all their ranting,
There reigns a God indeed,
How well He hates the canting
That framed their sordid creed!
