Introduction and Conclusion of a Long Poem

I have gone sometimes by the gates of DeathAnd stood beside the cavern through whose doorsEnter the voyagers into the unseen.From that dread threshold only, gazing back,Have eyes in swift illumination seenLife utterly revealed, and guessed thereinWhat things were vital and what things were vain.Know then, like a vast ocean from my feetSpreading away into the morning sky,I saw unrolled my vanished days, and, lo,Oblivion like a morning mist obscuredToils, trials, ambitions, agitations, ease,And like green isles, sun-kissed, with sweet perfumeLoading the airs blown back from that dim gulf,Gleamed only through the all-involving hazeThe hours when we have loved and been beloved.

Therefore, sweet friends, as often as by LoveYou rise absorbed into the harmonyOf planets singing round magnetic suns,Let not propriety nor prejudiceNor the precepts of jealous age denyWhat Sense so incontestably affirms;Cling to the blessed moment and drink deepOf the sweet cup it tends, as there aloneWere that which makes life worth the pain to live.What is so fair as lovers in their joyThat dies in sleep, their sleep that wakes in joy?Caressing arms are their light pillows. TheyThat like lost stars have wandered hithertoLonesome and lightless through the universe,Now glow transfired at Nature's flaming core;They are the centre; constellated heavenIs the embroidered panoply spread roundTheir bridal, and the music of the spheresRocks them in hushed epithalamium.

I know that there are those whose idle tonguesBlaspheme the beauty of the world that wasSo wondrous and so worshipful to me.I call them those that, in the palace whereDown perfumed halls the Sleeping Beauty lay,Wandered without the secret or the key.I know that there are those, of gentler heart,Broken by grief or by deception bowed,Who in some realm beyond the grave conceiveThe bliss they found not here; but, as for me,In the soft fibres of the tender fleshI saw potentialities of JoyTen thousand lifetimes could not use. Dear Earth,In this dark month when deep as morning dewOn thy maternal breast shall fall the bloodOf those that were thy loveliest and thy best,If it be fate that mine shall mix with theirs,Hear this my natural prayer, for, purifiedBy that Lethean agony and cladIn more resplendent powers, I ask nought elseThan reincarnate to retrace my path,Be born again of woman, walk once moreThrough Childhood's fragrant, flowery wonderlandAnd, entered in the golden realm of Youth,Fare still a pilgrim toward the copious joysI savored here yet scarce began to sip;Yea, with the comrades that I loved so wellResume the banquet we had scarce begunWhen in the street we heard the clarion-callAnd each man sprang to arms--ay, even myselfWho loved sweet Youth too truly not to shareIts pain no less than its delight. If prayersAre to be prayed, lo, here is mine! Be thisMy resurrection, this my recompense!

Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,Commemorative of our soldier dead,When--with sweet flowers of our New England MayHiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --Their graves in every town are garlanded,That pious tribute should be given tooTo our intrepid fewObscurely fallen here beyond the seas.Those to preserve their country's greatness died;But by the death of theseSomething that we can look upon with prideHas been achieved, nor wholly unrepliedCan sneerers triumph in the charge they makeThat from a war where Freedom was at stakeAmerica withheld and, daunted, stood aside.

Be they remembered here with each reviving spring,Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crestOf Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,Parted impetuous to their first assault;But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike tooTo that high mission, and 'tis meet to strewWith twigs of lilac and spring's earliest roseThe cenotaph of thoseWho in the cause that history most endearsFell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.

Yet sought they neither recompense nor praise,Nor to be mentioned in another breathThan their blue coated comrades whose great daysIt was their pride to share--ay, share even to the death!Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,Gave them that grand occasion to excel,That chance to live the life most free from stainAnd that rare privilege of dying well.

O friends! I know not since that war beganFrom which no people nobly stands aloofIf in all moments we have given proofOf virtues that were thought American.I know not if in all things done and saidAll has been well and good,Or if each one of us can hold his headAs proudly as he should,Or, from the pattern of those mighty deadWhose shades our country venerates to-day,If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.But you to whom our land's good name is dear,If there be any hereWho wonder if her manhood be decreased,Relaxed its sinews and its blood less redThan that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,And cry: "Now heaven be praisedThat in that hour that most imperilled her,Menaced her liberty who foremost raisedEurope's bright flag of freedom, some there wereWho, not unmindful of the antique debt,Came back the generous path of Lafayette;And when of a most formidable foeShe checked each onset, arduous to stem --Foiled and frustrated them --On those red fields where blow with furious blowWas countered, whether the gigantic frayRolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,Accents of ours were in the fierce melee;And on those furthest rims of hallowed groundWhere the forlorn, the gallant charge expires,When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,And on the tangled wiresThe last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: --Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."

There, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,They lie--our comrades--lie among their peers,Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,Grim clusters under thorny trellises,Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewnEven as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;And earth in her divine indifferenceRolls on, and many paltry things and meanPrate to be heard and caper to be seen.But they are silent, calm; their eloquenceIs that incomparable attitude;No human presences their witness are,But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,And showers and night winds and the northern star.Nay, even our salutations seem profane,Opposed to their Elysian quietude;Our salutations calling from afar,From our ignobler planeAnd undistinction of our lesser parts:Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.Double your glory is who perished thus,For you have died for France and vindicated us.