He whose might you sang so well Living, will not let you rust: Death has set the golden bell Pealing in the courts of dust. _For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty_ Not writ in water, nor in mist, Sweet lyric throat, thy name; Thy singing lips that cold death kissed Have seared his own with flame. _For Hazel Hall, American Poet_ Soul-troubled at the febrile ways of breath, Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm, “Yes, I’m a stranger here,” she said to Death, “It’s kind of you to let me take your arm.” _For Paul Laurence Dunbar_ Born of the sorrowful of heart, Mirth was a crown upon his head; Pride kept his twisted lips apart In jest, to hide a heart that bled. _For Joseph Conrad_ Not of the dust, but of the wave His final couch should be; They lie not easy in a grave Who once have known the sea. How shall earth’s meagre bed enthrall The hardiest seaman of them all? _For Myself_ What’s in this grave is worth your tear; There’s more than the eye can see; Folly and Pride and Love lie here Buried alive with me. _All the Dead_ Priest and layman, virgin, strumpet, Good and ill commingled sleep, Waiting till the dreadful trumpet Separates the wolves and sheep. _For Love’s Sake_ _Oh, for a Little While Be Kind_ (_For Ruth Marie_) Oh, for a little while be kind to me Who stand in such imperious need of you, And for a fitful space let my head lie Happily on your passion’s frigid breast. Although yourself no more resigned to me Than on all bitter yesterdays I knew, This half a loaf from sumptuous crumbs your shy Reneging hand lets fall shall make me blest. The sturdy homage of a love that throws Its strength about you, dawn and dusk, at bed And board, is not for scorn. When all is said With final amen certitude, who knows But Dives found a matchless fragrance fled When Lazarus no longer shocked his nose? _If You Should Go_ Love, leave me like the light, The gently passing day; We would not know, but for the night, When it has slipped away. Go quietly; a dream, When done, should leave no trace That it has lived, except a gleam Across the dreamer’s face. _To One Who Said Me Nay_ This much the gods vouchsafe today: That we two lie in the clover, Watching the heavens dip and sway, With galleons sailing over. This much is granted for an hour: That we are young and tender, That I am bee and you are flower, Honey-mouthed and swaying slender. This sweet of sweets is ours now: To wander through the land, Plucking an apple from its bough To toss from hand to hand. No thing is certain, joy nor sorrow, Except the hour we know it; Oh, wear my heart today; tomorrow Who knows where the winds will blow it? _Advice to Youth_ (_For Guillaume_)