Death! I know not, if my small barque be nearing you; But if you are at sea, Still there my sails float free; ‘What is to be will be.’ Nor will I mar the happy voyage by fearing you. Death! I know not, what hour or spot you wait for me; My days untroubled flow, Just trusting on, I go, For oh, I know, I know, Death is but Life that holds some glad new fate for me. INTERLUDE The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer; The headstones thicken along the way, And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger, For those who walk with us day by day. The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower; The courage is lesser to do and dare; And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower, And seldom covers the reefs of care. But all true things in the world seem truer; And the better things of earth seem best, And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer, And love is _all_ as our sun dips west. Then let us clasp hands as we walk together, And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone; For no man knows on the morrow whether We two pass on—or but one alone. RESURRECTION Pausing a moment ere the day was done, While yet the earth was scintillant with light, I backward glanced. From valley, plain, and height, At intervals, where my life-path had run, Rose cross on cross; and nailed upon each one Was my dead self. And yet that gruesome sight Lent sudden splendour to the falling night, Showing the conquests that my soul had won. Up to the rising stars I looked and cried, ‘There is no death! for year on year, re-born I wake to larger life: to joy more great, So many times have I been crucified, So often seen the resurrection morn, I go triumphant, though new Calvaries wait. THE VOICES OF THE CITY The voices of the city—merged and swelled Into a mighty dissonance of sound, And from the medley rose these broken strains In changing time and ever-changing keys. I Pleasure seekers, silken clad, Led by cherub Day, Ours the duty to be glad, Ours the toil of play. Sleep has bound the commonplace, Pleasure rules the dawn. Small hours set the merry pace And we follow on. We must use the joys of earth, All its cares we’ll keep; Night was made for youth and mirth, Day was made for sleep. Time has cut his beard, and lo! He is but a boy, Singing, on with him we go, Ah! but life is joy. II We are the vendors of beauty, We the purveyors for hell; The carnal bliss of a purchased kiss And the pleasures that blight, we sell. God pity us; God pity the world. We are the sad race-victims Of the misused force in man, Of the great white flame burned black with shame And lost to the primal plan. God pity us; God pity the world.