Soliloquy of an Old Revolutionist
What shall they say of me when I am dead,
Snuffed, prostrate, blown among the dust of earth—
Less than a dream dissolved, a rhythm fled,—
What shall they say who tread with crimson'd mirth
Earth's fairer ways, and I am vanished? . .
Saint, hero, sage? Ambitious fool forlorn?
It little counts,—they too must join the dead
And leave their names to honor or to scorn!
Yet Truth will sometime speak 'gainst armor'd foes
And speaking say my courage once unsheathed
For her a sword, say I disdained the Past
But gloried in the Future's blossoming rose,—
Yearn'd under summer's moon-drench'd leaves and breathed
Life's rich melodious glamour to the last!
Snuffed, prostrate, blown among the dust of earth—
Less than a dream dissolved, a rhythm fled,—
What shall they say who tread with crimson'd mirth
Earth's fairer ways, and I am vanished? . .
Saint, hero, sage? Ambitious fool forlorn?
It little counts,—they too must join the dead
And leave their names to honor or to scorn!
Yet Truth will sometime speak 'gainst armor'd foes
And speaking say my courage once unsheathed
For her a sword, say I disdained the Past
But gloried in the Future's blossoming rose,—
Yearn'd under summer's moon-drench'd leaves and breathed
Life's rich melodious glamour to the last!
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