Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By James RussellLowell356 After the Burial
Y
When skies are sweet as a psalm,
At the bows it lolls so stalwart,
In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.
The tattered surges are hurled,
It may keep our head to the tempest,
With its grip on the base of the world.
What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,
Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?
When the helpless feet stretch out
And find in the deeps of darkness
No footing so solid as doubt,
One broken plank of the Past,
That our human heart may cling to,
Though hopeless of shore at last!
To the flesh its sweet despair,
Its tears o’er the thin-worn locket
With its anguish of deathless hair!
Who doubts it of such as she?
But that is the pang’s very secret,—
Immortal away from me.
Would scarce stay a child in his race,
But to me and my thought it is wider
Than the star-sown vague of Space.
Your moral most drearily true;
But, since the earth clashed on her coffin,
I keep hearing that, and not you.
’T is a well-meant alms of breath;
But not all the preaching since Adam
Has made Death other than Death.
That jar of our earth, that dull shock
When the ploughshare of deeper passion
Tears down to our primitive rock.
But I, who am earthly and weak,
Would give all my incomes from dream-land
For a touch of her hand on my cheek.
So worn and wrinkled and brown,
With its emptiness confutes you,
And argues your wisdom down.