Classic Poem

1

She has not found herself a hard pillow
And a long hard bed,
A chilling cypress, a wan willow
For her gay young head
These are for the dead.

2

Does the violet-lidded twilight die
And the piercing dawn
And the white clear noon and the night-blue sky
When they are gone?

3

Does the shimmering note
In the shy, shy throat
Of the swaying bird?

4

O, does children's laughter
Live not after
It is heard?

5

Does the dear, dear shine upon dear, dear things
In the eyes, on the hair,
On waters, on wings ...
Live no more anywhere?

6

Does the tang of the sea, the breath of frail flowers,
Of fern crushed, of clover,
Of grasses at dark, of the earth after showers
Not linger, not hover?

7

Does the beryl in tarns, the soft orchid in haze,
The primrose through tree-tops, the unclouded jade
Of the north sky, all earth's flamings and russets and grays
Simply smudge out and fade?

8

And all loveliness, all sweetness, all grace,
All the gay questing, all wonder, all dreaming,
They that cup beauty that veiled opaled vase,
Are they only the soul of a seeming?

9

O, hasn't she found just a little, thin door
And passed through and closed it between?
O, aren't those her light feet upon that light floor,
. . . . . That her laughter. . . . . .O, doesn't she lean
As we do to listen? . . . . . . O, doesn't it mean
She is only unseen, unseen?