| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 514. On One Who Died in May |
| | | By Clarence Chatham Cook |
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| WHY, Death, what dost thou here, | |
| This time o’ year? | |
| Peach-blow and apple-blossom; | |
| Clouds, white as my love’s bosom; | |
| Warm wind o’ the west | 5 |
| Cradling the robin’s nest; | |
| Young meadows hasting their green laps to fill | |
| With golden dandelion and daffodil: | |
| These are fit sights for spring; | |
| But, oh, thou hateful thing, | 10 |
| What dost thou here? | |
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| Why, Death, what dost thou here, | |
| This time o’ year? | |
| Fair, at the old oak’s knee. | |
| The young anemone; | 15 |
| Fair, the plash places set | |
| With dog-tooth violet; | |
| The first sloop-sail, | |
| The shad-flower pale; | |
| Sweet are all sights, | 20 |
| Sweet are all sounds of spring; | |
| But thou, thou ugly thing, | |
| What dost thou here? | |
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| Dark Death let fall a tear. | |
| Why am I here? | 25 |
| Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never know | |
| I am his friend, nor ever was his foe? | |
| Whose the sweet season, if it be not mine? | |
| Mine, not the bobolinks, that song divine, | |
| Chasing the shadows o’er the flying wheat! | 30 |
| ’T is a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet. | |
| Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming rose | |
| But his, whose passionate heart long since lay still? | |
| Whose wan hope pales this snowlike lily tall, | |
| Beside the garden wall, | 35 |
| But his whose radiant eyes and lily grace | |
| Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill? | |
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| All hope, all memory, | |
| Have their deep springs in me; | |
| And love, that else might fade, | 40 |
| By me immortal made, | |
| Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies, | |
| And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes. | |
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