Poems (Jackson)/Flowers on a Grave
HAT sweeter thing to hear, through tears, than this,Of one who dies, that, looking on him dead,All men with tender reverence gazed and said:"What courtesy and gentleness were his!Our ruder lives, for years to come, will missHis sweet serenity, which daily shedA grace we scarcely felt, so deep inbredOf nature was it. Loyalty which isSo loyal as his loyalty to friendsIs rare; such purity is rarer still."Yes, there is yet one sweeter thing. It endsThe broken speech with sobs that choke and fillOur throats.Alas! lost friend, we knew not howOur hearts were won to love thee, until now.
FLOWERS ON A GRAVE.
I.
HAT sweeter thing to hear, through tears, than this,Of one who dies, that, looking on him dead,All men with tender reverence gazed and said:"What courtesy and gentleness were his!Our ruder lives, for years to come, will missHis sweet serenity, which daily shedA grace we scarcely felt, so deep inbredOf nature was it. Loyalty which isSo loyal as his loyalty to friendsIs rare; such purity is rarer still."Yes, there is yet one sweeter thing. It endsThe broken speech with sobs that choke and fillOur throats.Alas! lost friend, we knew not howOur hearts were won to love thee, until now.II.
Some lives are bright like torches, and their flameCasts flickering lights around, and changeful heats;Some lives blaze like the meteor which fleetsAcross the sky; and some of lofty aimStand out like beacon-lights. But never came,Or can, a light so satisfying sweet,As steady daylight, unperturbed, complete,And noiseless.Human lives we see the same As this; their equilibrium so just,Their movement so serene, so still, small heedThe world pays to their presence till in needIt sudden finds itself. The darkness near,The precious life returning dust for dust,It recollects how noon and life were clear.
III.
How poor is all that fame can be or bring!Although a generation feed the pyre,How soon dies out the lifeless, loveless fire!The king is dead. Hurrah! Long live the king!The poet breathes his last. Who next will sing?The great man falls. Who comes to mount still higher?Oh, bitter emptiness of such desire!Earth holds but one true good, but one true thing,And this is it—to walk in honest waysAnd patient, and with all one's heart belongIn love unto one's own! No death so strongThat life like this he ever conquers, slays;The centuries do to it no hurt, no wrong:They are eternal resurrection days.