DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fanfare, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 7, August 1941

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Fanfare, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 7, August 1941

Page 8

viii     fanfare

Lines From The Last Grave
by Oliver C. Davis

Man only lived to die. From vacant halls
A silent mourning moans against the craigs
And downward pressing sky. The ghosts ascend 
In weeping file; their white-gowned shadows move
More slowly up the serpent track that climbs
The ancient peaks than Life has moved from its
First days to Death. Their race's requiem
Drops heavy on the mounds of silent  graves.

And I, who wrote The End to history
With reverent hands that trembled on the last
of tear dimmed lines, have paced the world alone
As only watchers sad by silent graves
Can be alone. I breathed the last "Amen". 

And yet -- one hope lights in my glooming mind --
One noble chance. Those argosies that soared
To witching stars -- they may have won. Those great
Adventurers but little less than Gods --
They may have won, or passed by slow disease,
Or sudden shocking flash of fiery death.

But, wht answers this? What avails this game 
Of wild dismay and languishing despair?
No! I have made the end. The book is sealed.
If other minds have risen from our dust
And ash, and gleam on other fields, their souls
Are not as mine, my Mother World's. They are
The sons of men, but not the Race of Man.
We only bear that Godlike name who chose
To pass with Earth in cold, and watery biers.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The scene stretched in seething miles; the sky
Was spangled with threads of cold sea wind
And draped with hanging fog. My stumbling frame
Was sketched across this graying verge of time
Where antique forms are crumbling to the dim
Eternal seas, and Man's last sand has run.
The surging swelling tottents of the tide,
Like froth of madness white on foamy lips,
Were crashing on the  gloomy bouldered shore,
And straining white-tipped fingers high to kiss

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viii fanfare Lines From The Last Grave by Oliver C. Davis Man only lived to die. From vacant halls A silent mourning moans against the craigs And downward pressing sky. The ghosts ascend In weeping file; their white-gowned shadows move More slowly up the serpent track that climbs The ancient peaks than Life has moved from its First days to Death. Their race's requiem Drops heavy on the mounds of silent graves. And I, who wrote The End to history With reverent hands that trembled on the last of tear dimmed lines, have paced the world alone As only watchers sad by silent graves Can be alone. I breathed the last "Amen". And yet -- one hope lights in my glooming mind -- One noble chance. Those argosies that soared To witching stars -- they may have won. Those great Adventurers but little less than Gods -- They may have won, or passed by slow disease, Or sudden shocking flash of fiery death. But, wht answers this? What avails this game Of wild dismay and languishing despair? No! I have made the end. The book is sealed. If other minds have risen from our dust And ash, and gleam on other fields, their souls Are not as mine, my Mother World's. They are The sons of men, but not the Race of Man. We only bear that Godlike name who chose To pass with Earth in cold, and watery biers. - - - - - - - - - - - The scene stretched in seething miles; the sky Was spangled with threads of cold sea wind And draped with hanging fog. My stumbling frame Was sketched across this graying verge of time Where antique forms are crumbling to the dim Eternal seas, and Man's last sand has run. The surging swelling tottents of the tide, Like froth of madness white on foamy lips, Were crashing on the gloomy bouldered shore, And straining white-tipped fingers high to kiss