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Show THE PASSING OF BIERCE By George Stirling. TheBe lines were written, in answer to rumor that Ambrose Blerce, the poet, novelist, essayist and satirist, died by his own hand. Dream you he was afraid to live? Dream you he was afraid to die, Or that, a suppliant of the sky, He begged the gods to keep or give? Not thus the Shadow-Maker stood, Whose scrutiny dissolved so well Our thin mirage of Heaven and Hell, The doubtful evil, dubious good. If, drinking at the close of day, The staling wine at last displease, And, coming to the bitter lees, One take the sickened lips away, Who shall demand the Pilgrim keep A twilight session with Disgust, And know, since revellers cry he must, A farewell nausea ere he sleep? Were his a reason to embrace The Roman's dignity of death, Whose will decreed his final breath, Determining the time and place, Be sure his purpose was of pride, A matter not of fear but taste, When, finding mire upon the waste, And hating filth, he turned aside. If now his name be with the dead, x And, where the gaunt agaves-flow'r, The vulture and the wolf devour The lion-heart, the lion-head, Be sure that head and heart were laid In wisdom down, content to die. Be sure he faced the Starless Sky Unduped, -unmurmuring, -unafraid. |