In Patris Mei Memoriam

By the fond name that was his own and mine,
   The last upon his lips that strove with doom,
   He called me and I saw the light assume
A sudden glory and around him shine;
And nearer now I saw the laureled line
   Of the august of Song before me loom,
   And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom,
That whispered and forbade me to repine.
And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank
   Out of the stars and faded as a flame,
   And down the night, on clouds of glory, came
The battle seraphs halting rank on rank;
And lifted heavenward to heroic peace,
   He passed and left me hope beyond surcease.

by John Myers O'Hara

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