Lift up the Gates for these that are last, That are last in the great Procession. Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range. And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! O silent and secretly-moving throng, In your fifty thousand strong, Coming at dusk when the wreaths have dropt, And streets are empty, and music stopt, Silently coming to hearts that wait Dumb in the door and dumb at the gate, And hear your step and fly to your call-- Every one of you won the war, But you, you Dead, most of all! WITH THE TIDE EDITH WHARTON [Sidenote: January 6, 1919] _This was written on the day after Theodore Roosevelt's death._ Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name Is gone from me, I read that when the days Of a man are counted, and his business done, There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide, To the place where he sits, a boat-- And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees, Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, The faces of his friends long dead; and knows They come for him, brought in upon the tide, To take him where men go at set of day. Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes Between them his last steps, that are the first Of the new life--and with the ebb they pass, Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon. Often I thought of this, and pictured me How many a man who lives with throngs about him, Yet straining through the twilight for that boat Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, And that so faint its features shall perplex him With doubtful memories--and his heart hang back. But others, rising as they see the sail Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, Hands out and eyes elated; for they see Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, The faces of their friends; and such go forth Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts.