Violets and Other Tales/In Memoriam

The light streams through the windows arched high, And o'er the stern, stone carvings breaks In warm rich gold and crimson waves, Then steals away in corners dark to die.

And all the grand cathedral silence falls Into the hearts of those that worship low, Like tender waves of hushed nothingness, Confined nor kept by human earthly walls.

Deep music in its thundering organ sounds, Grows diffuse through the echoing space, Till hearts grow still in sadness' mighty joy, Or leap aloft in swift ecstatic bounds.

Mayhap 'twas but a dream that came to me, Or but a vision of the soul's desire, To see the nation in one mighty whole, Do homage on its bended, worshipping knee.

Through time's heroic actions, the soul of man, Alone proves what that soul without earth's dross Could be, and this, through time's far-searching fire, Hath proved thine white beneath the deepest scan.

A woman's tribute, 'tis a tiny dot, A merest flower from a frail, small hand, To lay among the many petaled wreaths About thy form,—a tribute soon forgot.

But if in all the incense to arise In fragrance to the blue empyrean The blended sweetness of the womens' love Goes pouring too, in all their heartfelt sighs.

And if one woman's sorrow be among them too, One woman's joy for labor past Be reckoned in the mighty teeming whole, It is enough, there is not more to do.

Within the hearts of heroes small and great There 'bides a tenderness for weakling things Within thy heart, the sorrowing country knows These passions, bravest and the tenderest mate.

When man is dust, before the gazing eyes Of all the gaping throng, his life lies wide For all to see and whisper low about Or let their thoughts in discord's clatter rise.

But thine was pure and undefiled, A record of long brilliant, teeming days, Each thought did tend to further things, But pure as the proverbial child.

Oh, people, that thy grief might find express To gather in some vast cathedral's hall, That then in unity we might kneel and hear Sublimity in sounds, voice our distress.

Peace, peace, the men of God cry, ye be bold, The world hath known, 'tis Heaven who claims him now, And in our railings we but cast aside The noble traits he bid us hold.

So though divided through the land, in dreams We see a people kneeling low, Bowed down in heart and soul to see This fearful sorrow, crushing as it seems.

And all the grand cathedral silence falls Into the hearts of these that worship low, Like tender waves of hushed nothingness, Confined, nor kept by human earthly walls.