XI

That living mm who throb in heart and train,

      Without the dead, were colder. If we tried

To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure

      The future would not stand. Precipitate

This old roof from the shrine—and, insecure,

      The nesting swallows fly off, mate from mate.

Scant were the gardens, if the graves were fewer!

      And the green poplars grew no longer straight,

Whose tops not looked to Troy. Why, who would fight

      For Athena, and not swear by Marathon?

Who would build temples, without tombs in sight?

      Who live, without some dead man's benison?

Who seek truth, hope for good, or strive for right,

      If, looking up, he saw not in the sun

Some angel of the martyrs, all day long

      Standing and waiting! your last rhythms will need

The earliest key-note. Could I sing this song,

      If my dead masters had not taken heed

To help the heavens and earth to make me strong,

      As the wind ever will find out some reed,

And touch it to such issues as belong

      To such a frail thing? Who denies the dead,

Libations from full cups? Unless we choose

      To look back to the hills behind us spread,

The plains before us sadden and confuse;

      If orphaned, we are disinherited.