IF one should say to you: Master, all hail!
The day dawns on the earth;
Here is the dawn as ever pale;
Master, your window i ope,
The morn is climbing up the eastern slope,
The day is at its birth!
--I think I should hear you say: I dream.
If one should say to you: Master, we are here,
Strong, heart and head,
As yesternight we stood before your door;
We have come laughing, here we stand,
Waiting for your smile and the firm grip of your hand
--They would answer us: The Master is dead.
Flowers from my terrace-bed,
Flowers as in a volume's page,
Here is a little of us, songs with our heart's blood red,
Even as these leaves fall down and eddying lie--
And here is the shame and the rage
Of living to speak words--when you are dead.