O Balder, he who fashiond us,
And bade us live and move,
Shall weave for Deaths sad heavenly hair
Immortal flowers of love.
Ah! never faild my servant Death,
Wheneer I named his name,
But at my bidding he hath flown
As swift as frost or flame.
Yea, as a sleuth-hound tracks a man,
And finds his form, and springs,
So hath he hunted down the gods
As well as human things!
Yet only thro the strength of Death
A god shall fall or rise
A thousand lie on the cold snows,
Stone still, with marble eyes.
But whosoeer shall conquer Death,
Tho mortal man he be,
Shall in his season rise again,
And live, with thee, and me!
And whosoeer loves mortals most
Shall conquer Death the best,
Yea, whosoeer grows beautiful
Shall grow divinely blest.
The white Christ raised his shining face
To that still brightning sky.
Only the beautiful shall abide,
Only the base shall die!