Last of the elder choir save one whose smile Is gentler for its memories, they rest. Mourn, goddess, come apart and mourn awhile. Come with thy sons, lithe Song-Queen of the West-- The poet Friend of Poets, the great throng Of seekers on the long elusive quest, And the lone voice of Arizonian song.
Nor absent they, thy latest-born, O Muse, My young companions in Art's wildwood ways; She whose swift verse speaks words that smite and bruise With scarlet suddenness of flaming phrase, Virginia's hawk of Song; and he who sings Alike his people's homely rustic lays And his fine spirit's high imaginings.
Far-stretching Indiana's melodist, Quaint, humorous, full of quirks and wanton whims, Full-throated, with imagination kissed; With these, two pilgrims from auroral streams, The Greek revealer of Canadian skies And thy close darling, voyager of dreams, Carman, the sweetest, strangest voice that cries.
And thou, friend of my heart, in fireside bonds Near to the dead, not with the poet's bay Brow-bound but eminent with kindred fronds, Paint us some picture of the summer day For his memorial--the distant dune, The marshes stretching palpitant away And blue sea fervid with the stress of noon.
For we were of the few who knew his face, Nor only heard the rumor of his fame; This house beside the sea the sacred place Where first with thee to clasp his hand I came-- Art's knight of courtesy, well-pleased to commend Who to my youth accorded the dear name Of poet, and the dearer name of friend.
Ah, that last bottle of old Gascon wine We drank together! I remember too How carefully he placed it where the shine Of the warm sun might pierce it through and through-- Wise in all gentle, hospitable arts-- And there was sunshine in it when we drew The cork and drank, and sunshine in our hearts.
O mourners by the sea, who loved him most! I watch you where you move, I see you all; Unmarked I glide among you like a ghost, And on the portico, in room and hall, Lay visionary fingers on your hair. You do not feel their unsubstantial fall Nor hear my silent tread, but I am there.
I would my thought had but the weakest throat, To set the air a-vibrate with a word. Alas! dumb, ineffectual, remote, I murmur, but my solace is not heard; Nor, could I reach you, would your grief abate. What sorrow ever was with speech deterred? What power has Song against the hand of Fate?...