Shapes of Clay

It is a politician man—

He draweth near his end,

And friends weep round that partisan,

Of every man the friend.

Between the Known and the Unknown

He lieth on the strand;

The light upon the sea is thrown

That lay upon the land.

It shineth in his glazing eye,

It burneth on his face;

God send that when we come to die

We know that sign of grace!

Upon his lips his blessed sprite

Poiseth her joyous wing.

"How is it with thee, child of light?

Dost hear the angels sing?"

"The song I hear, the crown I see,

And know that God is love.

Farewell, dark world—I go to be

A postmaster above!"

For him no monumental arch,

But, O, 'tis good and brave

To see the Grand Old Party march

To office o'er his grave!