Poems by Alfred Castner King
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When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand
O, tomb of the past
When passing years have streaked with frost
Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind
As the shifting sands of the desert
Is there a Death? The light of day
Almighty Power! Who through the past
Once more the merry Christmas bells,
Deprive this strange and complex world
Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
The hour-glass speeds its final sands,
What means this gathering multitude,
Ah, empty are the mother's arms
There is a cliff, no matter where,
Within a vale in distant Saxony,
Gently lead me, Star Divine,
When the poor, erring woman sought
Dedicated to the mountains of the San Juan district, Colorado, as seen from the summit of Mt. Wilson.
For some the river of life would seem
Hope is the shadowy essence of a wish,
I stood upon a crowded thoroughfare,
I think when I stand in the presence of Death,
If I have lived before, some evidence
Almighty God! Supreme! Most High!
DYING THOUGHTS.
I live, I move, I know not how, nor why,
Within the precincts of a hospital,
I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,
O, silvery moon, fair mistress of the night,
Pity the child who never feels
Mother! Mother!
I love to tread the solitudes,
In forest shade my couch is made.
O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,
On the margin of a lakelet,
Shall love as the bridal wreath, wither and die?
Shall our memories live, when the sod rolls above us
There is the warm, congenial smile,
I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven,
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,
I passed along a mountain road,
The leafless branch and meadow sere,
The fragrant perfume of the flowers,
St. Regimund, e'er he became a saint,
Clink! Clink! Clink!
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,
The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,
What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast?
O! Sun, resplendent in the smiling morn,
In the golden West, by fond Nature blest,
There is an air of majesty,
They cannot see the wreaths we place
Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,
I dug a grave, one smiling April day,
As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900.
Ye sad musicians of the wood,