Poems (Procter)/Our Dead
OTHING is our own: we hold out pleasuresJust a little while, ere they are fled:One by one life robs us of our treasures;Nothing is our own except our Dead.
OUR DEAD.
OTHING is our own: we hold out pleasuresJust a little while, ere they are fled:One by one life robs us of our treasures;Nothing is our own except our Dead.They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping,Safe forever, all they took away.Cruel life can never stir that sleeping,Cruel time can never seize that prey.
Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from heaven;Human are the great whom we revere:No true crown of honor can be given,Till we place it on a funeral bier.
How the Children leave us: and no tracesLinger of that smiling angel band;Gone, forever gone; and in their placesWeary men and anxious women stand.
Yet we have some little ones, still ours;They have kept the baby smile we know,Which we kissed one day, and hid with flowers,On their dead white faces, long ago.
When our Joy is lost—and life will take it—Then no memory of the past remains;Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make itBitterness beyond all present pains.
Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrowStill the radiant shadow, fond regret:We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow,Joy that he has taken, living yet.
Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it,Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own?Any cold and cruel dawn may show it,Shattered, desecrated, overthrown.
Only the dead Hearts forsake us never;Death's last kiss has been the mystic signConsecrating Love our own forever,Crowning it eternal and divine.
So when Fate would fain besiege our city,Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall,Death, the Angel, comes in love and pity,And, to save our treasures, claims them all.