Whispers of Immortality

John Webster was clearly a man Who loved the traffic of the city — yet Who, like a sleepy king in a drama, knew Nothing of popularity, or how to count Its promises of happiness. He had an eye That could not be satisfied with the splendour Of houses and their merchandise; but loved The broken, the neglected, the down-at-heel, And all that the town throws out — he loved The secrets human beings hide from one another, And was content to know them and to hold them for a while.

Webster was proved in thought, and could be trusted With short materials; his images were clear As noonday; the meaning was in every line. He had that face in which so much of human suffering Could be read, yet never looked as if he knew it; A face with the calmness which conceals the wound.

III. Whispers of immortality from afar Told me they were the children of the soul. And I, a child, believed them and was glad. The poets were the apostles of the Inevitable; They told me that the world was beautiful But the streets were dark, the passers by unlovely, And life an unconsummated ache.

IV. The years of to-day are not the years of the child; The old familiar things that we loved are passing; The street-lamps blink pale and are blown out; Our lives are like the light of the tallow candle, Flickering in a draught upon an altar; and hope Is the uncertain flame that still survives.

V. The only wisdom we can retain Is to hold on to those we have loved. For they were the light which made the dark world bearable; They were the music that outlived the noise of the market-place; They were the secret, whispered intimations of immortality. I listened: and the whispers were of death and of life;