crowned with the poet's wreath.
Who, who keeps silent and solemn
his passing place beneath?

~This was a poet that loved God's breath;
his life was a passionate quest;
he looked down deep in the wells of death,
and now he is taking his rest.~



To A. L. Gordon


In night-long days, in aeons
where all Time's nights are one;
where life and death sing paeans
as of Greeks and Galileans,
never begun or done;

where fate, the slow swooping condor,
comes glooming all the sky --
as you have pondered I ponder,
as you have wandered I wander,
as you have died, shall I die?



Love and Death