We Salute You, Before We Ourselves Die
There’s a shadow in the valley, there’s a blight upon the rose:
there’s a watchman keeping tally of the Autumn’s dying throes.
As the berries shrink and harden and the grass grows pale and spare,
there’s a quiet in the garden and a sadness in the air.
In the gloom of late September, under heaven’s purple pall,
we come to stir the embers of a love that touched us all.
Most solemn when most jolly, you were tragic when a clown.
There was pain behind your folly, and your smile concealed a frown.
For us, you raised the rafters, but at heart you were alone.
In your gift for sharing laughter lay despair which was your own.
The timbers now lie rotten and the dead leaves are your wreath:
but you are not forgotten, and won’t be, while we breathe.
The wide world bluffs and blusters, but we’re loyal to the core:
and the Old Brigade still musters, though we’re fewer than before.
One loaf we need to leaven, accept before we die:
don’t rail against the heavens, and never question why.
The waves won't leave off lapping, nor ponder how we feel.
Unhappiness just happens, included in the deal.
You gave, without requesting, more than we understood.
For your melancholy jesting, we salute you, as we should.
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