Mildred McNeal Sweeney: The Poet

Himself is least afraid
When the singing lips in the dust
With all mute lips are laid.
For thither all men must.
Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song
Upon the faithful air
And given it speed — is strong
That last strange hour to dare,
Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time
That greater self shall pass,
And wear its eager prime
And lend the youth it has
Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest
And now — his word gone forth —
May have his perfect rest
Low in the tender earth,
The wind across his breast.