I was as thirsty as a windy flower
That bares its bosom to the summer shower
And to the unremembered winds that came.
Pity me most for moments yet to be,
In the far years, when some day I shall turn
Toward this strong path up to our little door
And find it barred to all my ecstasy.
No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne-
Only the crying sea upon the shore.
HAROLD VINAL
A ROSE TO THE LIVING
A ROSE to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;
In filling love's infinite store,
A rose to the living is more,
If graciously given before
The hungering spirit is fled,-
A rose to the living is more
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.
NIXON WATERMAN
THE STORM
SHE reached for sunset fires,
And lived with stars and the sea,
The mountains for her temple,
The storm for priest had she.
Together a libation
They poured to the God she knew,
Such wine as ageless heavens
And lonely wisdom brew.
Now she has done with worship,
For her all rites are the same;
Yet the storm keeps green forever
The moss upon her name.
G. O. WARREN
WHERE THEY SLEEP
THE fog inrolling, dark and still
Lies deep upon the crowded dead
As flooding sea upon the sands,
And quenches starlight overhead.
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