Nor Myrtle--which Means Chiefly Love:

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless; That Only Men Incredulous Of Despair, Half-taught In Anguish, Through The Midnight Air Beat Upward To God's Throne In Loud Access Of Shrieking And Reproach

A Grave, On Which To Rest From Singing?

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.

And Each Man Stands With His Face In The Light. Of His Own Drawn Sword, Ready To Do What A Hero Can.