Poem May 18, 1899 Issue

The Difference

BY EDWARD A. JENKS

It may have been a dream—but beautiful at first:
I found myself upon a breezy eminence
At sunrise; and the hill was one great flashing opal
In the bright morning sun, blushing resplendently
Beneath his passionate June kisses; and the oaks
That crowned the hill stretched out their glist'ning, pleading
arms
For more—and more—and more. Their quivering foliage
Was full of bird-songs, and of airy whisperings
From Heaven and other far-off tributary hills.
The balmy air was laden with God's benison,
And all the happy spears of grass shook tambourines
Of jingling dewdrops to the music of their own
Wild laughter; and where'er the eye could reach, in this
Exhaustless realm of love, green valleys stretched away
Into one grand infinity of absolute
Perfection. Sweet Content seemed hovering everywhere,—
While over all, the turquoise sky, flecked here and there
With softest tufts of wool from flocks of sheep that feed
In grassy pastures on the sunny slopes of heaven,
Brooded and crooned as gently as a mother dove.

It seemed to me no sorrow, discord, sin, or pain
Could find a foothold there. My soul was full of love
For Him who made the world so beautiful,—when quick
My eyes discerned a moving speck far down the vale,
Distant, distinct, and ominous, portentous, black,
Which seemed to grow upon my bursting eyeballs to
A vast procession—feebly animated forms
Without a ray of hope in deeply cavernous eyes—
All journeying toward a Death's-Head Gateway 'tween the
hills
Encompassing the shadowy Valley of the Dead:
And as it nearer came, I noticed to the left
Of this dark, undulating line, somewhat apart
From it, a figure, semi-uniformed, who seemed
To marshal and command; and some way back of him
Another, then another, till the whole great line
Seemed fully officered, commanded, and controlled.

It was a mystery—a mystery so deep
I could not fathom it—and so, unconsciously,
I said "What can the meaning be?" A voice from out
The blue above me came, so low and sweet and sad
It made the tear-drops tremble on my eyelashes:
"That is the daily tribute to the Vale of Death—
The daily pall that falls on living, loving hearts."
"And who are they who walk beside that grewsome line,
Conducting them so kindly to the sombre gate?"
"They are the good physicians, who have done their best—
Who hold the Keys of Death—commissions signed and
sealed—
The legal warrants to contend with Death and Hell:
Alas! alas! that noble men should be so weak!"
And then I saw why "Failure"—writ so sadly oft—
Should ne'er be questioned. "Failure" and "Legality"
Were sisters. Who could question their divinity?
So the heart-broken crowd stood by, with streaming eyes,
And saw the long procession pass within the gate.

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