Dead Singer
By Edgar Daniel Kramer
He is gone
Like the ghost of the dew on the mountain,
Like the dawn
That gleamed a red flame on the fountain.
He has heard
The song of the mystical river
And the bird
That has sung in Saharin for ever.
He was here—
Lo, he was the white-fire bringer!
You drew near
But to mock and revile the sweet singer.
Oh, he came
And he laid his white soul on the altar,
A pale flame
That blazed and knew not how to falter!
Now you mourn—
Far too late is your wailing and weeping;
For your scorn
You have his dead day in your keeping.