Death of a Poet (Poetry)

For Ernest

What's this sad show — this passive, grieving crowd?
Where are the sleek black horses with their plumes —
The coffin on its carriage and the loud
Boom of cannons shattering the noon?

Does he not merit bands on every arm
To mark his passing — shops with shutters down
The beat of drums to measure Death's long calm
And mourners lining every street in town?

He was a poet true — an uncrowned king
Of literature — a rare and dying breed
Who conjured words to make the soul take wing —
Rhythm was his passion, rhyme his creed.

There should be thunder and a wailing choir —
Sorrow whispered from a million lips —
Comets streaking wild — a rain of fire —
An earthquake — a spontaneous eclipse!

Instead, the world's untouched by one more loss
The earth will take him — give no clue or sign
No ordinary name now gathers moss —
Here lies a poet modest, yet sublime.

Wreaths may wilt and recollections dim
The sharpest mind grows dull once youth has flown
But Time has failed to quench or silence him —
His poems have a life force of their own.