I was walking through the street

With a hollow in my heart,

Aching for the faces I

Will never see again,

When I looked into the chapel

Standing squat on Broad and 4th,

And saw what makes me wonder,

Why we ever venture forth.



A little old lady, a little old lady,

By the open coffin’s side

Staring at the empty face to whom

She is the bride.

An isolated moment where no love

Can ever hide,

A foretaste of the end to which we

Ever closer tide.

A little old lady by the open coffin’s side;

A foretaste of the end to which we

Ever closer tide.



Left behind with broken faces

Staring down into the grave,

It makes me wonder if we’ll always be death’s

Lifelong slave.

We are not ours, and we will have to let us go.

—

Watch her closely as she holds you,

Let her feed and watch you grow,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

See him smiling as he swings you,

Hold him tight and cuddle close,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let him go.

Kiss their wrinkles as they hug you,

Take their arms and be their cane,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Hold her hand and let her take you,

To the land of sunset skies,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

Tell them truly that you love them,

Let them know that you are there,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Kiss her sweet and let her kiss you,

In the altar’s shadow bright,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let her go.

Love them dearly while you hold them,

Tie their hearts like one with yours,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

See them smiling as you swing them,

Hold them tight and cuddle close,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Kiss their wrinkles as you hug them,

Take their hearts and hold them tight,

But forget not at their end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Watch them hold hands as they tell you,

Of the land of sunset skies,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

See them stand and pledge before you,

In the altar’s shadow kiss,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

Hug the children that they bring you,

Let them kiss your wrinkled face,

But forget not in the end,

That

You will have to let them go.

—

Tell them all how much you love them,

Hold their gaze and squeeze their hands,

For now that you are at the end,

You will have to let them go.

Hold her tight and let her kiss you,

Though your eyes are dim and sore,

For now that you are at the end,

You have to let her go.

—

Tell this always as you teach them,

That this life is not all ours,

For in the end, remember,

We will have to let us go.

The careless page on lamp-stand resting,

With pure white the glow reflecting,

Catches the sore wand’ring stranger’s eye,

And keeps it there without a sigh.

He reads thereon a poet’s verses,

Sore reflecting many hearses,

That should have rightly never rolléd,

Bearing corpses cowl- and hooded.



“Oh, the manner that he writes in!”



Thus the words that cross his cracking lips,

While tears run down to fill the rips.

Then eye, though dimmed, still struggling onward,

Next reads words that turn him upward,

Looking to the bright heav’nly places,

Where God with parted soul paces,

And—leaning down through clouds—soft touches,

Man’s heart so now again he blushes.



“What a manner that he writes in!”



“What god-like genius inspires him so,

Such lofty heights to rise unto?

Do Muses bright surround him—ringéd

In fair halo slight and gilded?

Or warrior-like hews he his figures,

Out of flesh and blood by measures,

‘Til the beauty shining forth o’erwhelms,

All other mortal verséd poems?”



“Which the manner that he writes in?”



Weary much from traveling afar,

The stranger sleeps him under star,

And as he dreams he sees the poet

—Yet in thought he does not know it--

Who sitting desk-bound looks about him,

Searching for poetic fountain;

And ne’er receiv’d he supernal aid,

But from this life poetry made:


That broad noble brow in thought contracts:

The genius broods; his mind he wracks.

Then eye with pure, clear light shines—spilling

Evanescent* light, so thrilling,

And lip with rev’rent murm’ring carries

Sweet words to ear and gentle lays,

While pen—by trembling fingers wielded--

Marks the page to make sure-founded;



This, the manner that he writes in.

“The lines of flowing water clashed,
But they had not hardened yet.
The rosebuds that are cut,
May, watered, open still.”

“Whispering together before a storm,
The leaves take counsel;
And some fly down.”