How shall we honor them, our Deathless Dead? How keep their mighty memories alive? In him who feels their passion, they survive! Flatter their souls with deed, and all is said! In the heroic soul their souls create Is raised remembrance past the reach of fate. The will to serve and bear, The will to love and dare, And take for God unprofitable risk— These things, these things will utter praise and pæan Louder than lyric thunders Æschylean; These things will build our dead unwasting obelisk. The Builders I dwell near a murmur of leaves, And my labor is sweeter than rest; For over my head in the shade of the eaves A throstle is building his nest. And he teaches me gospels of joy, As he gurgles and shouts in his toil: It is brimming with rapture, his wild employ, Bearing a straw for spoil. So I know ‘twas a joyous God Who stretched out the splendor of things, And gave to my bird the cool green sod, A sky, and a venture of wings. But why are my brothers so still? They are building a lordly hall— They are building a palace there on the hill, But there’s never a song in it all! The Angelus _Suggested by Millet’s painting with this title_ Far through the lilac sky the Angelus bell Brings back again the hail of Gabriel. Its refluent, three-fold, immemorial rhyme Follows the fading sun, from clime to clime— Ripples and lives a moment in the heart, Wherever the dark hours come and the bright depart. From land to fading land, the whole world round, It airily runs, a rosary of sound— Bursts silverly on sainted Palestine; Lives for a moment on the Apennine; Flings on the fields of France a far refrain; Sends a sweet trouble on the bells of Spain; Touches Manhattan; hurries on to be A murmur on Saint Francis by the sea.