Your cold philosophies that give no hint
Of spirit-quickened flesh； fall down and pray
That Death come never with a face of flint：
Death is our heritage； with Life we share
The sunlight that must own his darkening hour：
Within his very presence yet we dare
To gather gladness like a fading flower.
For even as this our joy not long may live
Perfect； and most in change the heart can trace
The miracle of life and human things：
All we have held to destiny we give；
Dawn glimmers1 on the soul-forsaken face；
Not we but others hear the bird that sings.
