The dead man in the chamber dim
Lay, with the silence over him.
The weary feet and weary breast
Of eighty-five were now at rest.
Peace held him in its clasp. His face
Wore that sad pity for our race
Which seems in gentle words to call,
'Thou knowest nothing: I know all.'
The bird beside the window sang,
Till all the little chamber rang—
Sang with his fullest voice and breath,
A song that had no touch of death.
'So strange,' I said, in awe and fear,
'This song is for his Master's ear,
'Who took delight in him, and brought
The little daily wants he sought;
'And for that reason should be known
Unto his Master's ear alone.'
I crept out of the little room,
And left it to its sacred gloom.
Outside the light that summer yields
Was resting on the woods and fields.
The hills took shadows, and they drew
Upon themselves a greener hue.
The winds were playing soft and low
The music of long years ago.
No leaf was stirless in the mirth
That overran the joyous earth.
A tiny speck of soft delight,
The daisy at my feet was white.
The lark, a higher poet, strong,
Sent down his rippling showers of song,
The very stream by which I stood
Had lost for once its sadder mood;
And flung a liquid finger up
To tempt a backward butter-cup
To blossom, so that it might rest
A shadow on its limpid breast.
There was no death in all I saw—
Life, full life, was the common law.
I was the only thing that stood
An alien from the general good.
For still I saw through all and these
The shadows of the mysteries
That follow men from birth to death,
To watch the passing of their breath.
And so, as background to the day,
With all its manifold display,
I saw a grave beside the wall,
Within the distant river's call,
And in a chamber hushed and dim,
The dead man—silence over him—
Whose weary feet and weary breast
Of eighty-five had now their rest.
And by the window, loud and clear,
As though to reach the dead man's ear,
A little bird whose spirit sang
Till all the silent chamber rang.