Mildred McNeal Sweeney: The Poet

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.