To Jack London

By George Sterling

Oh, was there ever face, of all the dead,
In which, too late, the living could not read
A mute appeal for all the love unsaid—
A mute reproach for careless word and deed?

And now, dear friend of friends, we look on thine,
To whom we could not give a last farewell,—
On whom, without a whisper or a sign,
The deep, unfathomable Darkness fell.

Oh! Gone beyond us, who shall say how far?
Gone swiftly to the dim Eternity,
Leaving us silence, or the words that are
To sorrow as the foam is to the sea.

Unfearing heart, whose patience was so long!
Unresting mind, so hungry for the truth!
Now hast thou rest, O gentle one and strong,
Dead like a lordly lion in its youth!

Farewell! although thou know not, there alone.
Farewell! although thou hear not in our cry
The love we would have given had we known.
Ah! And a soul like thine—how shall it die ?

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