(A.H. Quint)

MOURN we who honored him but knew him not;
Grieve ye who loved him, looking on his face;
Be mindful, Dartmouth, of each strenuous trace
That keeps his loyal record unforgot.
There is no faithlessness in grief, God wot;
However high the hope or clear the gaze,
There must be tears at every burial-place,
Though through the tears the very sky be shot.
For death is like the passing of a star
That melts into the splendor of the dawn.
Were we beyond the air that blurs our sight
In the clear ether where the angels are,
We should behold it still; but now, withdrawn
In sunrise, lose it, looking on the light.