The Nation (American magazine)/Volume 123/3194/Poems

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Poems

By S. Foster Damon

Epitaph in a Garden

Here, in the shade of younger leaves,Now they lie sweetly.They never lived but as a dream,Then died completely;
For flowers face no Judgment DayAnd risk no Resurrection:Their part to shake the Naked VoidWith rings and ripples of perfection.

Epitaph Upon a Philosopher

The sun, the moon, the stars, the earthWere all created at my birth,And now they blur and swim awayLike dreams at the approach of day.I open, and not close, the eye;'Tis they are dying, and not I.

Epitaph

I found the answers, then I learnedThe riddles you had been;And deprecated labyrinthsWhich we had wandered in.
Now suddenly a silence;All riddles are outrun:Though I might touch you, yet you areDeparted past the sun.

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