I <br /> <br />SAINTS have adored the lofty soul of you. <br />Poets have whitened at your high renown. <br />We stand among the many millions who <br />Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. <br /> <br />You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried <br />To live as of your presence unaware. <br />But now in every road on every side <br />We see your straight and steadfast signpost there. <br /> <br />I think it like that signpost in my land <br />Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go <br />Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, <br />Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, <br />A homeless land and friendless, but a land <br />I did not know and that I wished to know. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: <br />Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, <br />A merciful putting away of what has been. <br /> <br />And this we know: Death is not Life effete, <br />Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen <br />So marvellous things know well the end not yet. <br /> <br />Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: <br />Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, <br />"Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" <br />But a big blot has hid each yesterday <br />So poor, so manifestly incomplete. <br />And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, <br />Is touched; stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet <br />And blossoms and is you, when you are dead. <br /><br /><br />Charles Hamilton Sorley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/two-sonnets/
