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Our Dead Post by :Jakob Category :Poems Author :Adelaide Anne Procter Date :August 2011 Read :3177

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Our Dead

Nothing is our own: we hold our pleasures
Just a little while, ere they are fled:
One by one life robs us of our treasures;
Nothing is our own except our Dead.

They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping
Safe for ever, all they took away.
Cruel life can never stir that sleeping,
Cruel time can never seize that prey.

Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from Heaven;
Human are the great whom we revere:
No true crown of honour can be given,
Till we place it on a funeral bier.

How the Children leave us: and no traces
Linger of that smiling angel band;
Gone, for ever gone; and in their places,
Weary men and anxious women stand.

Yet we have some little ones, still ours;
They have kept the baby smile we know,
Which we kissed one day and hid with flowers,
On their dead white faces, long ago.

When our Joy is lost--and life will take it--
Then no memory of the past remains;
Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make it
Bitterness beyond all present pains.

Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow
Still the radiant shadow, fond regret:
We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow,
Joy that he has taken, living yet.

Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it,
Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own?
Any cold and cruel dawn may show it,
Shattered, desecrated, overthrown.

Only the dead Hearts forsake us never;
Death's last kiss has been the mystic sign
Consecrating Love our own for ever,
Crowning it eternal and divine.

So when Fate would fain besiege our city,
Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall,
Death the Angel, comes in love and pity,
And to save our treasures, claims them all.

(The end)
Adelaide Anne Procter's poem: Our Dead

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The Story Of The Faithful Soul The Story Of The Faithful Soul

The Story Of The Faithful Soul
FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGENDThe fettered Spirits lingerIn purgatorial pain,With penal fires effacingTheir last faint earthly stain,Which Life's imperfect sorrowHad tried to cleanse in vain.Yet on each feast of MaryTheir sorrow finds release,For the Great Archangel MichaelComes down and bids it cease;And the name of these brief respitesIs called "Our Lady's Peace."Yet once--so runs the Legend--When the Archangel cameAnd all these holy spiritsRejoiced at Mary's name;One voice alone was wailing,Still wailing on the same.And though a great Te DeumThe happy echoes woke,This one discordant wailingThrough the sweet voices broke;So when St. Michael questioned,Thus the poor spirit spoke:-"I am not cold

An Ideal An Ideal

An Ideal
While the grey mists of early dawnWere lingering round the hill,And the dew was still upon the flowers,And the earth lay calm and still,A winged Spirit came to meNoble, and radiant, and free.Folding his blue and shining wings,He laid his hand on mine.I know not if I felt, or heardThe mystic word divine,Which woke the trembling air to sighs,And shone from out his starry eyes.The word he spoke, within my heartStirred life unknown before,And cast a spell upon my soulTo chain it evermore;Making the cold dull earth look bright,And skies flame out in sapphire light.When noon ruled from the heavens, and