| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | To W. J. C. | | By Harriet Monroe |
| | October 5th, 1848—September 19th, 1916
WHY is it, when they wreathe about your name | |
| Garlands of praise—cry soldier, diplomat, | |
| Lover of justice, statesman; and enrich | |
| The pillage of their hearts with bitter tears | |
| For your great heart that beats no more— | 5 |
| Why do I see only that tilt of the lip | |
| And gleam of the eyes, the sudden whimsical smile | |
| That used to break the grand lines of your face?— | |
| And hear only some little tender word, | |
| Some love-joke tripping up our futile pride | 10 |
With doubt of human grandeur?
Sweet—oh, brave! | |
| Oh, brave and sweet through the strange sun-shot maze | |
| You passed unwavering—holding out your hands | |
| To give and bless, freeing your eager mind | |
| In warm bold words, opening wide your eyes | 15 |
| To see the light, follow the clearing path | |
Out to great spaces.
Go—go forth! They win you. | |
| I see you there against the sunset glow | |
| Waving your hand, smiling your quizzical smile. | |
| “What next?” I hear you say. Then the sun flaunts | 20 |
| Its crimson to the zenith, and goes down | |
| To make another day. And you are gone. | | | | |
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