Paint Me the Glory of a Furrowed Face
Paint me the glory of a furrowed face
Where death's dim fingers have begun to feel
Their way in silence, lingering to trace
The beauty of their passage and reveal
Only the grandeur of a hope fulfilled
And slowly mellowing to the mightier close:
When the brief turmoil of the heart is stilled
And the brave hands are clasped in strong repose.
Eternity bends low to seal those eyes,
Those lips, those tender tired hands that sleep
In the last autumn twilight when the skies
Drop a cool star down to the dreaming deep . . . .
See, death himself has paused, lest even now
The splendor of a thought flame on that brow!
Whether this young poet shall prove himself a master-spirit it is too early to predict; but surely his book is "the precious life-blood.