Now he is dead who loved the traveling cloud,
And knew the white road to the harbor ships;
And romance has gone by, that called aloud
His name, and summoned laughter from his lips.
I read the words, I know that this is true —
But will you other women feel as I
When the tall door of Paradise swings to,
And glory has forsaken the wide sky?
For though I read, my heart cannot believe.
The wind cries, No! along the glittering track
Above the dusk, and will not let me grieve.
(It was a wind that brought Odysseus back.)
And oh, the copses where the thrushes dwell,
The foxglove forests with their outlaw bees,
The moonrise like a distance-softened bell,
The hills that claimed him! I must think on these
(And how I always knew that he had heard
The music dripping from the rainbow’s edge
And the brief meteor’s infrequent word,
And God’s low footfall in the river-sedge),
Till all wild earth lays passionate hands on him,
The very islands will not let him go,
Nor the old mountains, nor the seas that rim
The unknown clinging lands!
Thus do I know
How strange the message that will come to you.
All of you others who must read the names;
And while your hearts deny that truth be true.
The letters of one word like separate flames
Will light the face of a forgotten flower,
Or broken water with the sunset stained,
Or a lost midnight, and the secret hour
Of wonder when nor thought nor speech remained
And one of you will say, It was not vain!
And one recall the valiant things he said.
But all the time, reiterate as rain,
Some jest of his turned sharp, now he is dead.
Will leave your every feeling wholly numb,
Forbidding tears, the tears that may not come.
Almost they come to me; so long you will
Stare at the names, incredulous and still!