The Unconquered

I NEVER hear the thrush’s mellow flute
In the hushed gloom of woods where threads of sun,
From tree-trunk to tall tree-trunk, one by one,
Move in slow beauty, eloquently mute;
Nor watch dark skies swept by the trembling tops
Of poplars bowing to the evening breeze;
Nor tread the tufted grass the heifer crops;
Nor feel the fog blow past me from the seas,
Without that leap of blood, that catch of breath,
Coming to strike me dumb at thought of Death.

Death, the strange dream beyond all thought withdraw,
Incredibly beyond compassion’s sting;
Deaf to all grief, immune to pitying,
Ultimate conqueror of beauty’s dawn
That saw the myriad seeds of eager life
Willing themselves to growth and rapturous
Content in being! Brief, but beauteous,
The conflict, glorious the strife,
That takes such joy of living for a span,
Knowing the verdict before Time began.

Splendid to have been one of those who fought
To be, defying death in every beat
Of a full-pulsing heart; to drink the sweet
Dark wine of ecstasy, the milk of thought,
Until such pageantry of the unseen
Comes to reality within the mind
That the blind heart can consolation find
In heaven and hell and all that lies between,
And comes to think on Death as the indenture
That binds the deathless will to new adventure.