A Grave

by Edith Wharton

　　With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,

　　To proffer you the captaincy of some

　　Resounding exploit, that shall fill

　　Man's pulses with commemorative thrill,

　　And be a banner to far battle days

　　For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,

　　What would your answer be,

　　O heart once brave?

　　Seek otherwhere; for me,

　　I watch beside a grave.

　　Though to some shining festival of thought

　　The sages call you from steep citadel

　　Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained

　　Yields the pure vision passionately sought,

　　In dreams known well,

　　But never yet in wakefulness attained,

　　How should you answer to their summons, save:

　　I watch beside a grave?

　　Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul

　　Of fire-tongued seers descending,

　　Or from the dream-lit temples of the past

　　With feet immortal wending,

　　Illuminate grief's antre swart and vast

　　With half-veiled face that promises the whole

　　To him who holds her fast,

　　What answer could you give?

　　Sight of one face I crave,

　　One only while I live;

　　Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave.

　　Though love of the one heart that loves you best,

　　A storm-tossed messenger,

　　Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,

　　Where clung its last year's nest,

　　The nest you built together and made fast

　　Lest envious winds should stir,

　　And winged each delicate thought to minister

　　With sweetness far-amassed

　　To the young dreams within—

　　What answer could it win?

　　The nest was whelmed in sorrow's rising wave,

　　Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;

　　I watch beside a grave.