Classic Poem

And we buried him with the rest of the dead
No word was spoken over his grave which could not have been said over any other there:
And after we had buried him snug in his earthy bed we turned away and took him home with us to hearthstone our aching future.
What was it that came from him to us and made salvation thenceforth unnecessary?
What in him that seemed to take Jesus by the hand and Buddha and turn chant and rhetoric to the superior offices of love?
The church dissolved, the state was wrecked, only a man was left, and that man without a name—
That man our dear companion: What was it, O brothers invulnerable?
What was it that came without reputation from him and displaced without scorn all honored traditions?
When he died no void was left—he filled all voids:
The near unseen, the far unknown, the cherished figure hanging in the background,
He, the least of men, without rank, born of mothers and fathers forgotten,
Without hate or love, measured our common hope
And men were not even curious enough to wonder who he was.
The plainest citizen of your city could have been mistaken for him,
The obscure mechanic, the neglected artist, the foiled leader,
The man who somehow had not written up to himself or down to the dirt,
Yet conspicuous above kings who rule with crowns or tyrants elected to serve.
You have thought it was history's end to produce the conspicuous fine person?
No: all the cost of experience has been paid to produce this great unknown life—
The life of our dear companion—the life of our dearest friend—
Whose passport yields us heaven at a sign