[One of the Bearers soliloquizes：]

    。 . . Room in your heart for him， O Mother Earth，

    Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair，

    And sang your praise in verses manifold

    And delicate， with here and there a line

    From end to end in blossom like a bough

    The May breathes on， so rich it was. Some thought

    The workmanship more costly than the thing

    Moulded or carved， as in those ornaments

    Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self

    Works in this wise； upon a blade of grass，

    Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush，

    Lavishing endless patience. He was born

    Artist， not artisan， which some few saw

    And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes

    When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died，

    And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows，

    He missed the glare that gilds more facile men——

    A twilight poet， groping quite alone，

    Belated， in a sphere where every nest

    Is emptied of its music and its wings.

    Not great his gift； yet we can poorly spare

    Even his slight perfection in an age

    Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux.

    He had at least ideals， though unreached，

    And heard， far off， immortal harmonies，

    Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day.

    The mighty Zolaistic Movement now

    Engrosses us——a miasmatic breath

    Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is，

    The hideous side of it， with careful pains，

    Making a god of the dull Commonplace.

    For have we not the old gods overthrown

    And set up strangest idols？ We could clip

    Imagination's wing and kill delight，

    Our sole art being to leave nothing out

    That renders art offensive. Not for us

    Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones

    Ineffable， nor any heaven-wrought dream

    Of sculptor or of poet； we prefer

    Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains

    Take shape and substance， thoughts that taint the air

    And make all life unlovely. Will it last？

    Beauty alone endures from age to age，

    From age to age endures， handmaid of God.

    Poets who walk with her on earth go hence

    Bearing a talisman. You bury one，

    With his hushed music， in some Potter's Field；

    The snows and rains blot out his very name，

    As he from life seems blotted： through Time's glass

    Slip the invisible and magic sands

    That mark the century， then falls a day

    The world is suddenly conscious of a flower，

    Imperishable， ever to be prized，

    Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave.

    'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms

    And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings

    Hold strange vitality， and， planted， grow

    After the lapse of thrice a thousand years.

    Some day， perchance， some unregarded note

    Of our poor friend here——some sweet minor chord

    That failed to lure our more accustomed ear——

    May witch the fancy of an unborn age.

    Who knows， since seeds have such tenacity？

    Meanwhile he's dead， with scantiest laurel won

    And little of our Nineteenth Century gold.

    So， take him， Earth， and this his mortal part，

    With that shrewd alchemy thou hast， transmute

    To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs！