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Even the bravest that are slain
Even the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise On waking to find valor reign, Even as on earth, in paradise; And where they sought without the sword Wide fields of asphodel fore'er, To find that the utmost reward Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white And is not shattered into dyes, The light forever is morning light; The hills are verdured pasture-wise; The angle hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave;— And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth, The trial by existence named, The obscuration upon earth. And the slant spirits trooping by In streams and cross- and counter-streams Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams!
And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise. And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there The speeding of devoted souls Which God makes his especial care.
And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out That opens earthward, good and ill, Beyond the shadow of a doubt; And very beautifully God limns, And tenderly, life's little dream, But naught extenuates or dims, Setting the thing that is supreme.
Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end: 'One thought in agony of strife The bravest would have by for friend, The memory that he chose the life; But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice, Or the woe were not earthly woe To which you give the assenting voice.'
And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same; And the awe passes wonder then, And a hush falls for all acclaim. And God has taken a flower of gold And broken it, and used therefrom The mystic link to bind and hold Spirit to matter till death come.
'Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.
Even the bravest who have died Will not hide their astonishment When they wake to find courage ruling, Just like on earth, in paradise; And where they searched without weapons For vast fields of eternal asphodel, To discover that the greatest reward Of bravery is still to be brave.
The light of heaven shines pure and bright And is not broken into colors, The light is always morning light; The hills are lush and green; The angelic hosts go with freshness, And seek with joy what to confront; And binding all is the quiet snow Of the distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top it is declared The gathering of souls for birth, The trial of existence is named, The obscurity on earth. And the slanting spirits passing by In streams and cross and counter-streams Can only listen to that sweet call For its hint of what dreams!
And the more lingering ones are turned To see once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good understood Will willingly give up paradise. And a white shimmering crowd rolls Toward the throne to witness there The rushing of devoted souls Which God takes special care of.
And none are taken but those who choose, Having first heard life read out That opens earthward, good and bad, Beyond any doubt; And very beautifully God outlines, And gently, life's little dream, But nothing softens or dims, Setting the thing that is ultimate.
Nor is there lacking in the crowd Some spirit to stand simply forward, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the utmost of earth. The story of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than beneath the sun; And the mind spins and the heart sings, And a shout welcomes the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end: 'One thought in pain of struggle The bravest would want as a friend, The memory that he chose this life; But the pure fate to which you go Allows no memory of choice, Or the sorrow would not be earthly sorrow To which you give your agreeing voice.'
And so the choice must be made again, But the final choice remains the same; And the awe replaces wonder then, And a silence falls for all praise. And God has taken a golden flower And broken it, and used it As the mystical link to bind and hold Spirit to matter until death comes.
'Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, we still lack The lasting memory that is clear, That life has for us in suffering Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we completely stripped of pride In the pain that has only one ending, Bearing it crushed and confused.