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Title: Faces Of The Dead
Author: Laurence Alma-Tadema [
More Titles by Alma-Tadema]
I dreamed that, wandering by a river's bank,
I came across a lonely ship that sank
In lifeless waters. Day was dim;--in dreams
We see nor sun, nor moon; unearthly gleams
Of deadened light fall strangely from the sky.--
There were but three that struggled not to die:
A man, a woman, and a tender child;
He sought to save them both with effort wild
And dragged his love to the entangled shore;
But down the slimy weeds she slid once more
Into the water, and her lover's breast
Received her, and together they found rest.
The child was saved; my hand towards her hand
Outstretched, drew all her sweetness to the land,
Where naked, like a lily wet with rain,
She sank and loudly wept at her life's gain.
Quite small she was, and light; I bore her fast
To what seemed home, and there she smiled at last
And sat upright within my arms; I found
A bright-hued veil wherein to wrap her round,
Tissues that far in morning-lands were spun
By those who love the flowers and the sun.
I laid her softly in a silken bed,
Strewed fragrant violets about her head
And left her.
'Twas my dream then that I slept.
But when at dawn unto her bed I crept,
The child was lost. Her pillow was all wet
With tears that still flowed on; and faster yet
They flowed in quickening rills, until I thought
I stood beside a torrent wide that sought
An unknown sea. The day was sad, tho' young;
Upon a misty branch some bird had sung
And left a trembling silence; all around
I saw the little daisies on the ground
Fast closed, with folded arm-petals in vain
Shielding their yellow hearts from the cold rain.
--A voice invisible made murmur then:
'Come here and look upon these poor drowned men!
The ship was sunk a year ago to-day....'
But I stepped back and shuddering turned away,
For I had never seen the face of Death.
Yet Fear itself soon drew me with quick breath
Back to the place, even to the river's brink
Where I had seen that lonely vessel sink.
And there in waters deep I saw them lie,
With hands at rest and eyes that sought the sky:
Clear eyes wide open to an unseen day.
In wondrous silence motionless they lay,
With white lips smiling on their spirit's bliss.
'Is Death but this?' I cried, 'no more but this?'
And answer came: 'Among those faces there
Are all unknown?'
'Twas then I saw him, fair
With perfect peace, my enemy, even he
Of all the world who most had tortured me.
He lay there, blessed among the blessed, and smiled
With eyes more pure than any wakening child.
The little waves in passing--like the breeze
That stirs the foliage of the unmoved trees--
Played in their hair, and fluttering grasses rose
And fell and danced about their mute repose.
But I gazed on until I too had drunk
Of their lips' joy, until their peace had sunk
Into my troubling earth-stirred heart that ached
To join them ... and then waked....
[The end]
Laurence Alma-Tadema's poem: Faces Of The Dead
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