Poem March 9, 1912 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel]

DEATH SLAIN

BEN. HAWORTH-BOOTH

Would you the truth decipher and discern
About the lie of lies? Men call it "death"
And speak thereof with hushed and fearful breath,
With hearts that faint and fevered eyes that burn.

Men call one dead, and deem his life is o'er
When in the dust they lay the unconscious head,
And know not they themselves are blind and dead,
And he they mourn still lives, though gone before.

Men talk of death, though ignorant they be
That Truth is Life, and more unconscious still
That Life is Mind: they fain would drink their fill
Of earth's untruth and insincerity.

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