Produced by Hope Paulson, Greg Bergquist and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
_AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS_
_Looking seaward well assured That the word the vessel brings Is the word they wish to hear._
_There is a city builded by no hand, And unapproachable by any shore, And unassailable by any band Of storming soldiery forevermore._
The tide is in the marshes. Far away In Nova Scotia's woods they follow me, Marshes of distant Massachusetts Bay, Dear marshes, where the dead once loved to be! I see them lying yellow in the sun, And hear the mighty tremor of the sea Beyond the dunes where blue cloud-shadows run.
I know that there the tide is coming in, Secret and slow, for in my heart I feel The silent swelling of a stress akin; And in my vision, lo! blue glimpses steal Across the yellow marsh-grass, where the flood, Filling the empty channels, lifts the keel Of one lone cat-boat bedded in the mud.
The tide is in the marshes. Kingscroft fades; It is not Minas there across the lea; But I am standing under pilgrim shades Far off where Scituate lapses to the sea. And he, my elder brother in the muse, The poet of the Charles and Italy, Stands by my side, Song's gentle, shy recluse.
The hermit thrush of singers, few might draw So near his ambush in the solitude As to be witness of the holy awe And passionate sweetness of his singing mood. Not oft he sang, and then in ways apart, Where foppish ignorance might not intrude To mar the joy of his sufficing art.
Only for love of song he sang, unbid And unexpectant of responsive praise; But they that loved and sought him where he hid, Forbearing to profane his templed ways, Went marveling if that clear voice they heard Pass thrilling through the hushed religious maze, Were of a spirit singing or a bird.
Alas! he is not here, he will not sing; The air is empty of him evermore. Alone I watch the slow kelp-gatherers bring Their dories full of sea-moss to the shore. No gentle eyes look out to sea with mine, No gentle lips are uttering quaint lore, No hand is on my shoulder for a sign.