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!

"Are soldiers, General."

"Then

Charge, Major! Do your best:

Hold the enemy back, at all cost,

--

Till my guns are placed, else the army

is lost.

You die to save the rest!"

II

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

shrank.

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

with flame;

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

fall,