THE TALE OF THE FISHES 



Alone, for now he sleeps beneath the grass, 



Dear comrade, godlike man, death-claim'd Alas ! 



Alone by Hammonasett's side I drift 

 The deft decoys as whispering waters mass, 



With thought of him. His form I all but see, 

 His manly glance, his carriage proud and free, 



His jacket dight with purple pinxter-flowers 

 Oh! how I priz'd his unselfish love for me. 



And oft he pluck'd some wild-blow by the burn, 

 Pausing its petals reverently to turn, 



And read such impress of Supreme design, 

 That angels might have stoop'd to look and learn. 



So side by side we lived as one and lo'ed 

 The weird inspiring stillness of the wood, 



The flow of brook, the summer hush of lake, 

 The glossy meres where water-lilies bud, 



The hum of toiling bee, the nesting trill, 

 The flush of dawn and sky-set daffodil, 



The sacrament of souls as wood glooms fall 

 And wakes Gray Twilight's voice of "Whip-poor-will." 



'Tis gone I see a grave in city fair, 

 And tear-swept faces bending low in prayer, 



And blanch'd hands stretch'd from sable robes to lay 

 Pale roses on the lov'd form resting there. 



