House of falling leaves with other poems / William Braithwaite [electronic text]

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS
BAILEY ALDRICH

(March 19, 1907)

I

WHAT sudden bird will bring us any cheer Whose song in the chill dawn gives hope of Spring; Can we be glad to give it welcoming Though April in its music be so near? Not while the burden of our memories bear The weight of silence that we know will cling About the lips that nevermore will sing The heart of him with visions voiced so clear.

There is a pause in meeting before speech Between men who have fed their souls with song; The strangeness of an echo beyond reach Cleaves silence deep for speech to pass along. There are no words to tell the loss, but each Of our hearts feels the sorrow deep and strong.

II

The Wondersmith in vocables is dead! The Builder of the palaces of rhyme Shall build no more his music out of Time. In the deep, breathless peace to which he fled He sits with Landor's hands upon his head Watching our suns and stars that sink and climb Between him and our tears' continuous chime — Sorrowing for his presence vanishèd.

Aldrich is dead! but the glory of his life Is in his song, and this will keep his name Safe above change and the assaults of strife. Poet, whose artistry, his constant aim Kept true above defections that were rife, Death taking him, still leaves his deathless fame.

March 20, 21, 1907.