(March 19, 1907) <br /> <br />I <br /> <br />What sudden bird will bring us any cheer <br />Whose song in the chill dawn gives hope <br />of Spring; <br />Can we be glad to give it welcoming <br />Though April in its music be so near? <br />Not while the burden of our memories bear <br />The weight of silence that we know will cling <br />About the lips that nevermore will sing <br />The heart of him with visions voiced so clear. <br /> <br />There is a pause in meeting before speech <br />Between men who have fed their souls with song; <br />The strangeness of an echo beyond reach <br />Cleaves silence deep for speech to pass along. <br />There are no words to tell the loss, but each <br />Of our hearts feels the sorrow deep and strong. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />The Wondersmith in vocables is dead! <br />The Builder of the palaces of rhyme <br />Shall build no more his music out of Time. <br />In the deep, breathless peace to which he fled <br />He sits with Landor s hands upon his head <br />Watching our suns and stars that sink and climb <br />Between him and our tears continuous chime --- <br />Sorrowing for his presence vanished. <br /> <br />Aldrich is dead! but the glory of his life <br />Is in his song, and this will keep his name <br />Safe above change and the assaults of strife. <br />Poet, whose artistry, his constant aim <br />Kept true above defections that were rife, <br />Death taking him, still leaves his deathless fame. <br /> <br />March 20, 21, 1907.<br /><br />William Stanley Braithwaite<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-thomas-bailey-aldrich/
