Praise to the Eternal One, and naught but praise";
And as they sang the spirits of the dying
Were upward borne from lips that ceased their sighing;
And dying was not death, but deeper living—
Living, and prayer, and praising and thanksgiving!
THE STAIRWAY
By this stairway narrow, steep,
Thou shalt climb from song to sleep;
From sleep to dream and song once more;—
Sleep well, sweet friend, sleep well, dream deep!
THE ACTOR
Glorious that ancient art!—
In thine own form to show the fire and fashion
Of every age and clime, of every passion
That dwells in man's deep heart!
Player, play well, not meanly,
Thy part in life, as on the mimic stage!
From highest thought is born art's noblest rage:
Live, act, end all, serenely!
THE STRICKEN PLAYER
When at life's last the stricken player lies,
When throng before his darkened, dreaming eyes
His soul's companions, which more real then—
The human comrades, the live women and men
Of the large world he knew, or the ideal
Imagined creatures his own art made real;
Wherein he poured his spirit's very being,
His soul and body? Are those dim eyes seeing
