  The flame of summer droops and fades and closes, While autumn thins the embers of the copse, And evermore the violent life of roses Grows keener as the roseate foliage drops: O strong young hearts within whose veins was leaping Love like a fount, hate like a dart shot high, My heart o'er yours, its dolorous vigil keeping, Is pierced with sorrow, while in joy you die! Your ashes o'er the flats of France are scattered, But hold a fire more hot than flesh of ours; The stainless flag that flutters, frayed and tattered, Shall wave and wave like spring's immortal flowers. You die, but in your death life glows intenser; You shall not know the shame of growing old: In endless joy you swing the holy censer, And blow the trumpet tho' your lips are cold. Life was to us a mist of intimations, Death is a flash that shows us where we trod; You, falling nobly for the righteous nations, Reveal the unknown, the unhoped-for face of God. After long toil your labours shall not perish; Through grateful generations yet to come Your ardent gesture, dying, Love shall cherish, And like a beacon you shall guide us home. Edmund Gosse By permission of the Author |
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