The Poet. [Mildred McNeal

Sweeney]

Himself is least afraid When the singing lips in the dust With all mute lips are laid. For thither all men must. Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song Upon the faithful air And given it speed

-- is strong That last strange hour to dare, Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time That greater self shall pass, And wear its eager prime And lend the youth it has Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest And now -- his word gone forth -- May have his perfect rest Low in the tender earth, The wind across his breast.