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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

To W. J. C.

Harriet Monroe

October 5th, 1848—September 19th, 1916

WHY is it, when they wreathe about your name

Garlands of praise—cry soldier, diplomat,

Lover of justice, statesman; and enrich

The pillage of their hearts with bitter tears

For your great heart that beats no more—

Why do I see only that tilt of the lip

And gleam of the eyes, the sudden whimsical smile

That used to break the grand lines of your face?—

And hear only some little tender word,

Some love-joke tripping up our futile pride

With doubt of human grandeur?
Sweet—oh, brave!

Oh, brave and sweet through the strange sun-shot maze

You passed unwavering—holding out your hands

To give and bless, freeing your eager mind

In warm bold words, opening wide your eyes

To see the light, follow the clearing path

Out to great spaces.
Go—go forth! They win you.

I see you there against the sunset glow

Waving your hand, smiling your quizzical smile.

“What next?” I hear you say. Then the sun flaunts

Its crimson to the zenith, and goes down

To make another day. And you are gone.