For which of us, indeed, is dead? No more I lean to kiss your head, The gold-red hair so thick upon it:
Joy feels no more the touch that won it, When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm In tenderness so childish, calm, Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm Is strong, and still my blood runs warm:
I still can work and think and weep. But all this show of life I keep Is but the shadow of your shine, Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; Therefore you are not dead, nor I, Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy. Among the stars your feet are set; Your little feet are dancing yet
Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth. So swift, so slight, are death and birth!
THE VOICE OF THE VOID
I WARN, like the one drop of rain On your face, ere the storm; Or tremble in whispered refrain
With your blood, beating warm. I am the presence that ever Baffles your touch's endeavor, Gone like the glimmer of dust Dispersed by a gust.
I am the absence that taunts you, The fancy that haunts you; The ever unsatisfied guess That, questioning emptiness, Wins a sigh for reply.
Nay, nothing am I, But the flight of a breath For I am Death!
Charge, Major! Do your best:
Hold the enemy back, at all cost,
Till my guns are placed, else the army
You die to save the rest!"
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes For an instant, clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will.”
"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath, - Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed
Rode in and sabred and shot - and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his
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