Ina Donna Coolbrith (Ина Донна Кулбрит)
Unbound
J. F. B. DIED APRIL 29, 1883. FORTH from this low estate, Fetterless now of fate, Pass, spirit blest! Out of the cark and care, Out of the griefs that were, Into thy rest. Done with the dreary round Daily thy soul that bound From its true aim, — Little can matter now Fame's wreath upon the brow, Earth-praise or blame. God! is there of despair Keener than this to bear, Under the sun: Tasked, like a slave in chains, While our true work remains Waiting, undone? Feeling, as life sweeps by, All the pure majesty Of that we miss? Fettered and tortured so, Christ, pity all who know Sorrow like this! Not here was given his wage: Of his best heritage Barred and denied. Man of the silver tongue, Poet of songs unsung, Dreamer, clear-eyed; Slave not to gain or greed; Bound by no narrow creed By priestcraft taught: In God's fair universe Seeing nor hate, nor curse Of Him that wrought; Trusting the love divine, — Careless of church or shrine, Blessing or ban; His prayer the common good, His faith the brotherhood Of man with man. And if unto his eyes Veiled were the mysteries Of the far shore, Who of us all may be Wiser, in truth, than he? Who knoweth more? Never the kindly wit Lighter, because of it, Sad hearts shall make; No more the earnest thought, With its deep lesson fraught, Souls shall awake. Eloquent eye and lip, Peerless companionship, Passed from the earth. Friend of the many years, Well for thee fall my tears, Knowing thy worth. Flowers on the gentle breast, Lay the frail form to rest Under the sod. Passed from earth's low estate, Fetterless now of fate, Leave him with God.
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