My Father’s Grave: A Poem

My Father's Grave The sun is floating in a pensive sky A soft wind sweeps the field where sleep the dead ;

The falling leaves of autumn rustle by, As my slow feet the hearse's roadway tread. A spirit sad but sweet broods o'er the scene, As if a higher world its holy atmosphere Were shedding on these silent billows green, Where those who live have buried those so dear. Written for and read by the author at a meeting of the Cummings Family Association, held April 13, 1915.

MY FATHER'S GRAVE 667

A granite shaft a solemn shadow throws Across a mound in an obscure space, And thoughts of him whose ashes here repose, Now draw me to his modest resting olace. A brief inscription, carved upon the stone, His name, with dates of birth and death, supplies ;

But on this" spot no signs of wealth are shown, For he was poor, and with the poor he lies.

This is my father's grave; his kingly form. Clothed in an angel's raiment, here was laid. To feel no more of pain, or grief, or harm, But just to rest, where none can make afraid.

My father's grave Beside it with bared head !

Ibow, while deep emotion my heart swells, And with communion sweet my soul is fed From sources where my father dear now dwells. Among those pioneers whose painful trail First lined the desert's dreary, ashen face. And penetrated to this mountain vale, He held a brave and valiant leader's place. The first rude homes that broke the desert's reign, His brawn and skill were soon employed to build His fellow exiles here took heart again, And he like them with hope and faith was filled. And now, upon the scene where thus he toiled, A city stands whose beauty is world famed ;

The desert drear, at which stout hearts recoiled, Is now a picture rare, in mountains framed.

His 'labor hard no respite ever knew Until old age his eye and strength impaired ;

To honor and to conscience he was true, And with the poor his scanty store He shared. With faithful care his children all were trained In virtue's ways, and faith in God were taught The politician's methods he disdained, Nor could his vote or favor e'er be bought. His friends were many, yet his sphere obscure He did not wish to leave nor did he seek ;

To win the world's applause, nor yet secure Its prizes vain, so tempting to the weak.

My father as stand here by your grave, ! I

How like a flood come recollections bright Of loving counsel you so often gave, To guide my footsteps in the path of right. Ineed that counsel now, and my soul yearns To hear again your kind, inspiring voiee ;

With such a longing often my heart burns ; ,

In such a blessing, how I would rejoice.

Is such a blessing, then, beyond my reach ? Has God forbidden you to speak to me? May not the dead the living ever teach? May not the living ever the dead see? Where is the record of a law divine That thwarts these hopes of human nature, lost? That thus divides your sphere of life from mine. And says the gulf shall never more be crossed ? In all the scripture God has ever given There is no law intended to prevent Our loved ones, gone before us up to heaven. From visiting us here, when they are sent. This is the faith I cherish, firm and sure I do believe that, when I listen right, Your voice speaks to me words of cheer, And that your spirit o'er my path sheds light. And if my selfishness I would subdue. And stronger faith my sluggish soul would fire, The vail that separates me now from you Would vanish, and I'd have my heart's desire. Your face I'd see, your voice so loved I'd hear Wise counsel and reproof you'd 'gently give; The future you'd unfold, and without fear The words of life from you I would receive. The fault is mine, then, if my longing still Remains unsatisfied so let me wait ;

In patient effort with myself until God's grace shall help me reach a higher state.

And if to meet you I must leave this sphere And follow whither you have gone before. With faith and courage that shall know no fear. J will approach that mystic, happy shore. p. F. Cummings.