For works with similar titles, see A Question.
A QUESTION
I might have died then,
I, who was so near
The shadowy entrance to the land of peace;
And oh, how much of sorrow would have swept
In a deep river o'er me where I slept;
But no, someone prayed long and earnestly
And a white angel stooped,
Or God's hand reached,
And drew me back from rest that men call—death,
Yes, drew me back from rest to life's unrest,
And could it have been best?
I, who was so near
The shadowy entrance to the land of peace;
And oh, how much of sorrow would have swept
In a deep river o'er me where I slept;
But no, someone prayed long and earnestly
And a white angel stooped,
Or God's hand reached,
And drew me back from rest that men call—death,
Yes, drew me back from rest to life's unrest,
And could it have been best?
———
Wake, Jubal, wake, thou father of song!
Thy children mourn, for thy sleep hath been long;
Gather the notes from the vocal spheres,
And sing of the dead and the living years;
Send the first note from thine organ key
To startle the centuries yet to be.
Thy children mourn, for thy sleep hath been long;
Gather the notes from the vocal spheres,
And sing of the dead and the living years;
Send the first note from thine organ key
To startle the centuries yet to be.
———
Keep fresh the sweet legacies, love, music, beauty,
The poetry twined with life's barren thorn-wreath,
For hard and bereft were the pathway of duty
With no sunshine above and no roses beneath.
The poetry twined with life's barren thorn-wreath,
For hard and bereft were the pathway of duty
With no sunshine above and no roses beneath.