Whereof to lift the general night, A certain few who stood aloof had said, “See you upon the horizon that small light— Swelling somewhat?” Each mourner shook his head. XVII And they composed a crowd of whom Some were right good, and many nigh the best . . . Thus dazed and puzzled ’twixt the gleam and gloom Mechanically I followed with the rest. 1908–10. SPECTRES THAT GRIEVE “IT is not death that harrows us,” they lipped, “The soundless cell is in itself relief, For life is an unfenced flower, benumbed and nipped At unawares, and at its best but brief.” The speakers, sundry phantoms of the gone, Had risen like filmy flames of phosphor dye, As if the palest of sheet lightnings shone From the sward near me, as from a nether sky. And much surprised was I that, spent and dead, They should not, like the many, be at rest, But stray as apparitions; hence I said, “Why, having slipped life, hark you back distressed? “We are among the few death sets not free, The hurt, misrepresented names, who come At each year’s brink, and cry to History To do them justice, or go past them dumb. “We are stript of rights; our shames lie unredressed, Our deeds in full anatomy are not shown, Our words in morsels merely are expressed On the scriptured page, our motives blurred, unknown.” Then all these shaken slighted visitants sped Into the vague, and left me musing there On fames that well might instance what they had said, Until the New-Year’s dawn strode up the air. “AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?” “AH, are you digging on my grave My loved one?—planting rue?” —“No: yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. ‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said, ‘That I should not be true.’” “Then who is digging on my grave? My nearest dearest kin?” —“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use! What good will planting flowers produce? No tendance of her mound can loose Her spirit from Death’s gin.’” “But some one digs upon my grave? My enemy?—prodding sly?” —“Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie.” “Then, who is digging on my grave? Say—since I have not guessed!” —“O it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog, who still lives near, And much I hope my movements here Have not disturbed your rest?” “Ah, yes! _You_ dig upon my grave . . . Why flashed it not on me That one true heart was left behind! What feeling do we ever find To equal among human kind A dog’s fidelity!” “Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting-place.”