Memorials
Deep cut the tomb atop which Fénelon
In effigy reclines. His hands describe,
As though they were soft brackets carved of stone,
His sweet thoughts, poured out that we might imbibe.
But Fénelon is gone; though in the day,
The tomb, bathed in variable light
That stains the Sanctuary at Cambral,
Breathes and changes with each hour. At night
His tomb is dark, and dark, not far away,
The dead of Bourlon Wood, as well unknown,
And dark, between them, Fénelon’s valet,
And all their causes now are overgrown.
As soon will ours; for that, no logic gives
The reasons for the heart’s imperatives.
Don Ives 1998
