3/25/34

Idea for a poem: The spectral uncertainty of death and its influence on all living, but its easy companionship with those who have gone on. The little child, exchanging this life for his companionship with death probably laughs mockingly from his corpse at the shrinking, cringing monarch of wealth and power clutching madly – futilely – at the life he KNOWS, fearing to exchange it for the hereafter, which he has neglected to study or to pursue. His worldly affairs have allowed him no time for contemplating immortality – until too late. The innocent babe early learns the secret of which the learned philosopher and scientist grows old wondering. And, barring the possibility of suicide, which is an underhanded solution, the scientist will never learn that secret by his own research or cunning prying. Ironically enough, when the time comes to him, he will touch “the thing” reluctantly – even unwillingly – fearing “the thing” in the search of which he has devoted his life. What food for thought for those who rush aimlessly through life little questioning the miracles of creation – finally arriving at the same threshold to be shorn of all earthly vanities – very naked indeed among people whose garments are the robes of the spirit laid up at the cost of self-denial and sacrifice on earth.

Back to the conception of Death. I think of my own mother and father. Thrice the seed was/were sown, gave forth new life, and sent up three ambitious plants – frail in their relationship to this world, but well guarded and nurtured – perhaps at a cost which will never be fully realized, paid by – . Will the fruits of these plants flourish beautifully causing the world to regret that the stock from which it came should have passed on never again to furnish it fruits such as these, or will the world curse and burn the fruits and the plants, thanking God that there were no more – an eternal damnation of the parents from which they sprung.

I can still see from my window the tent covering the graves of that crippled man and his heroic sister who laid down her life with his in an attempt to save him. Framing the picture are the gnarled trunk and motionless leaves of the big oak tree just outside my window standing steadily portent of the several times another fifty years it will survey the wonderful awe-inspiring parade of human existence which will pass beneath is branches. Its heart and some of its branches have been seared by the jagged flaming rapier of the elements, but its feet are strong in the mellow soil, and the scars are sealed with impermeable cement.