The Poet

Mildred McNeal Sweeney

Himself is least afraid
 When the singing lips in the dust
With all mute lips are laid.
 For thither all men must.
Nor is the end long stayed.
But he, having cast his song
 Upon the faithful air
And given it speed — is strong
 That last strange hour to dare,
Nor wills to tarry long.
Adown immortal time
 That greater self shall pass,
And wear its eager prime
 And lend the youth it has
Like one far blowing chime.
He has made sure the quest
 And now — his word gone forth —
May have his perfect rest
 Low in the tender earth,
The wind across his breast.