I cannot share my own words with you today, about the death of my favorite curmudgeon. Oh, I have words: but they remain mixed with the salt of a thousand unshed tears.  I hope to sift them down to a page for  my Saturday Musing; because a man so loved and so unique; a man who gave me so much and claimed for himself so little, deserves to be honored only after reflection.

But for today, this day when I ache but at least I feel; when I mourn but at least I have loved, and therefore, have lost something worthy of mourning; on this day, I can only offer someone else’s words, in the hopes that they will hold the place until I can refine my own.

“Away”

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead–. He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you– O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return–,

Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country’s foes–.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave–,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things–: Where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain–.

Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead– he is just away!