July 24. "Dead, Dead, Dead."
Reading edition
I wonder if there is still anyone in all the world to whom this date is important? And after all why should it be? In twenty-three years a whole generation has come into life; has wept and laughed, and loved and married, and produced another generation to do the same thing—and who remembers the roses that withered even yesterday?
Oh, wild, loud wind, Who, moaning, as in pain, Beats with wet fingers at my door in vain, Dost thou come from the graves with that sad cry Which pleads for entrance, and denied, goes by To faint in tears amidst the freezing rain? In here the live red fire glows again. Of life and living we are full and fain. Here is no thought of death, or men that die— Oh, wild, loud wind! Why shouldst thou come then to my window pane To wring thy hands and weep, and sore complain That they alone all sad and cold must lie In wet, dark graves, and we breathe not a sigh? We have forgot. The quick and dead are twain, Oh, wild, loud wind!