Classic Poem

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
— A group unbroken — smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
— We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
— He needed it so often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
— Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take
— The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,
— Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.

Death is a mood of life. It is no whim
— By which life's Giver mocks a broken heart.
Death is life's reticence. Still audible to Him,
— The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.

There is no vacant chair. To love is still
— To have. Nearer to memory than to eye.
And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will
— We hold by our love, that shall not die.

For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try!
— Who can put out the motion or the smile?
The old ways of being noble all with him laid by?
— Because we love, he is. Then trust awhile.