THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON |
A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame
Upon a roughened bench—bare walls, bare floor,
And glimmering gray of sunrise—yes, and more—
Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name—
Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came,
Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar
Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar
The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim.
Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind;
Thy churchÈd tomb, the pillared vault of morn;
Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead,
Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind;
But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn
With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped.
May 8, 1912. |
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