When all graves open to the final sky-
all souls emerging in familiar clay-
we will not need the songs you could supply.
Now needing you, we fear you may goodbye,
keeping some unsung songs for your array
when all graves open to the final sky.
The risen need no poet's songs, rely
on no one's art to luminate the way-
we will not need the songs you could supply.
Yet, here, that selfsame music might untie
a knotted spirit, cheer it to the day
when all graves open to the final sky.
It might, like prophecy, impel the eye
to such new seeing, none would dare say
"we will not need the songs you could supply."
When you, in anguish, feel that you must die,
may Hart, Vachel, Sylvia urge you to stay;
when all graves open to the final sky
we will not need the songs you could supply.
~E. R. Cole
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