Oh, bring not then the dread report of death,—
Of eyes to loveliness forever sealed,
Of youth that perished as a passing breath,
Of hearts laid waste and agonies untold,
When here in every sweet Canadian field
Are heaped such treasuries of green and gold!
TO OUR BELOVED
The hearts fat oe in these une glen with ears-
- O let them be your living bed,
- Come home to us, beloved dead!
We will not mourn or praise you over much, We only ask with wistful lips to touch
- Your garment's hem, and lay sweet boughs
- Grown of heart's pride upon your brows.
We only ask that with you we may die To all that you have died to, putting by
- The aims that once set life ablaze,
- The cares that vexed those restless days.
For something of us perished at your side, The lighter self you knew died when you died;
- Though we are called by no new name,
- We, too, have passed that cleansing flame,—
Have passed beyond the old desires and fears Into a tenderness unstained of tears; "Tis this that we would fold you in, Our spirits' next and nearest kin.
"Think not, Beloved, that you have suffered change To us, it is the world that has grown strange;
- We are wire whol cars, indeed;
- For though condemned to life, yet do we stand
Consciously near the Undiscovered Land,
- Feeling befriended there and known
- In the high fellowship death has shown.
