Classic Poem

If we one day had guessed how death
Would claim at last our Harlequin—
He to whom laughter was as breath,
He of the lifted brow and chin
And eyes that seemed as though just turned
From pages where a love-song burned.

One would have doubtless said, “Some night,
Blown on the Carnival's high gust,
His life will go out like a light
Between a kiss and dagger-thrust,
And his fantastic ghost will rise
With a black mask across its eyes.”

Or one might say, “Some Springtime dawn
Will find him, in all certainty,
Full-flung upon a dewy lawn
Beneath a rose-hung balcony,
Lips curving in a song struck mute,
And at his side a broken lute.”

Or say, “Upon a raft at sea,
Careless if death come late or soon,
So he but end the rhapsody
He sings to the complacent moon,
Saluting with his finger-tips
Till the last ripple strikes his lips.”

O well-belovéd ghost, what chance
Is yours to make the answer due?
There is an unnamed grave in France
That in its silence speaks for you—
The soldier's grave you fought and died to win.
Laugh—but laugh gently at us, Harlequin!