I have begun to count my dead. They wave green branches Around my head, Put their hands upon my shoulders, Stand behind me, Fly above me-- Presences that love me. They watch me daily, Murmuring, gravely, gaily, Praising, reproving, readily. And every year that company Grows the greater, steadily. And every day I count my dead In robes of sunrise, blue and red. III--A RHYMED ADDRESS TO ALL RENEGADE CAMPBELLITES, EXHORTING THEM TO RETURN I O prodigal son, O recreant daughter, When broken by the death of a child You called for the greybeard Campbellite elder, Who spoke as of old in the wild. His voice held echoes of the deep woods of Kentucky. He towered in apostolic state, While the portrait of Campbell emerged from the dark: That genius beautiful and great. And millennial trumpets poised, half lifted, Millennial trumpets that wait. II Like the woods of old Kentucky The memories of childhood Arch up to where gold chariot wheels go ringing, To where the precious airs are terraces and roadways For witnesses to God, forever singing. Like Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, the memories of childhood Go in and in forever underground To river and fountain of whispering and mystery And many a haunted hall without a sound. To Indian hoards and carvings and graveyards unexplored. To pits so deep a torch turns to a star Whirling ’round and going down to the deepest rocks of earth, To the fiery roots of forests brave and far. III As I built cob-houses with small cousins on the floor: (The talk was not meant for me). Daguerreotypes shone. The back log sizzled And my grandmother traced the family tree. Then she swept to the proverbs of Campbell again. And we glanced at the portrait of that most benign of men Looking down through the evening gleam With a bit of Andrew Jackson’s air, More of Henry Clay And the statesmen of Thomas Jefferson’s day: With the face of age, And the flush of youth, And that air of going on, forever free. For once upon a time ... Long, long ago ... In the holy forest land There was a jolly pre-millennial band, When that text-armed apostle, Alexander Campbell Held deathless debate with the wicked “infi-del.” The clearing was a picnic ground. Squirrels were barking. The seventeen year locust charged by. Wild turkeys perched on high. And millions of wild pigeons Broke the limbs of trees, Then shut out the sun, as they swept on their way. But ah, the wilder dove of God flew down To bring a secret glory, and to stay, With the proud hunter-trappers, patriarchs that came To break bread together and to pray And oh the music of each living throbbing thing When Campbell arose, A pillar of fire, The great high priest of the Spring.