When Genius dies in youth with wings unspread
Then is our world a bleak and surly one,
Devoid of hope and that celestial sun
That shines in splendour on a haloed head.
What might have been is not, and joy has fled:
Such beauty, such nobility begun
Should have a golden noon; yet there is none,
And night, descending, helps to weep the dead.

A solemn hour has run its woeful course:
To deputize for him might light the dawn,
To signify assent to his dear plans,
To imitate; though with a lesser force.
The mourner draws a breath—no sorrow’s pawn
Who carves a way till earth with heaven spans.

Source: Amy Redpath Roddick, "The Iroquois Enjoy a Perfect Day, A Chance Meeting, and Other Poems" (Montreal: John Dougall & Son, 1939), 42

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