To the memory of Charles D. McNaughten.
He has solved it--life's wonderful problem--
The deepest, the strangest, the last;
And into the school of the angels
With the answers forever has passed.
How strange, that in spite of our questions,
He maketh no answer, nor tells
Why so soon were Yale's honoring laurels
Displaced by God's own immortelles.
How strange he should sleep so profoundly,
So young, so unworn by the strife,
While beside him, brim-full of hope's nectar,
Untouched stands the goblet of life.
Men slumber like that, when the evening
Of a long, weary day droppeth down;
But he wrought so well, that the morning
Brought for him the rest and the crown.
'T is idle to talk of the future,
And the rare "might have been," 'mid our tears;
God knew all about it, yet took him
Away from the oncoming years.
God knew all about it--how noble,
How gentle he was; and how brave,
How brilliant his possible future--
Yet put him to sleep in the grave.
God knew all about those who loved him,
How bitter the trial must be;
And right through it all, God is loving,
And knows so much better than we.
So, right in the darkness be trustful;
One day you shall say; It was well:
God took from his young brow Earth's laurels,
And crowned him with Death's immortelles.
