Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

Afterwards

THERE was a day when death to me meant tears,

And tearful takings-leave that had to be,

And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,

And sudden disarrangement of the years.

But now I know that nothing interferes

With the fixed forces when a tired man dies;

That death is only answerings and replies,

The chiming of a bell which no one hears,

The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,

The soft recessional of noise and coil,

The coveted something time nor age can spoil;

I know it is a fabric finely spun

Between the stars and dark; to seize and keep,

Such glad romances as we read in sleep.