Away

I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead—. He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you— O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return—, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes—. Mild and gentle, as he was brave—, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things—: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed: When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain—. Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead— he is just away!