The Detroit times. [volume] (Detroit, Mich.) 1903-1920, 1916-05-30
~ Or. FRANK CRANE
, Copyright. 1915. by Frank Crans)

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Once year, by beautiful custom,
are called upon to remember the del
1t is Memorial Day.
We constantly remember them in q
cret. In the night, in dreams, they / !
turn to US. When our spirits wander1
the thick darkness of sleep, and III,
bodies lie as dead, they steal toward
in that pure and impalpable form whit
human beings take when they leave til
clay and enter into the realm of spiri
Then their stilled voices speak to 81,
Their vanished hands clasp ours. The),
remembered kisses meet our own. \
And in the crowded day they som}
times fit by. We glimpse them disa}
pearing around a corner. They seem
sit near, until we turn to look at thenf
when they dissolve. They fly throua
the mind, as birds flutter in at one wiz
dow and out at another. They are q
lusive, intangible, haunting.
But in the month of May we have Sc
the Festival of the Blessed Dead. The
we consciously, ritually, and of defnit(
purpose, go out to their house, the hous3
of cool walls and rounded green roof, AMI
take them messages of lilacs, speak 4
them in roses.
Then they live again. For the dead
stir and smile when they are rememberI
ed. They go back to icy nothingnes|
when they are forgotten.
The sacredest Joy is in. the heart Of
sorrow. There is pleasure in the quicl
blood the responding passion, the sound
ing laugh, in feasting, struggle, and thu
vigor of hope; but there is deeper JOY
in the silent hour spent in the chancel Of
memory. Then we unwrap the leaves OF
grief and find again our hid treasures Of
loyalty. Love triumphs over death. We
unlock the closed door, and they thai
have passed through come back to walk
with us to Emmaus.
And returning they are TRANSPORTED
All the pettiness and commences hal
dropped from them. Something has en-.
nobled them. And our thoughts are
ennobled as they entertain them.
The dead are the jewellers of the in
finite. The infinite clings to their gar.
ments when they revisit us. They shed
supernal beauty. Mingling with them we
realize that we ourselves are immortal
our destiny, too, runs beyond the stars
while we are made of the dust Of the
ground. there is in us also the breath OF
heaven. about even us there Is some high
dignity of the galaxies, somewhat eter-
nal, vast, divine.
Let our procession then move TO the
camp Of the dead, where lie hopes once
as bright as ours. ambitions as burning
loves as tender, longings as ardent, sins
as scarlet, as ours; for the blessed dead
are part Of our life, as the unborn are
part of it, Humanity itself II but q
long procession vending from mystery to
mystery, and life is but thoughtful In
terval
Remember the dead, and you cannot
be wholly sordid. Remember the dead,
and the harsh and coarse elements in
YOU wither. Remember the dead, and
some worthier meaning shall enrich your
purpose.
Remember the dead, not weakly and
with depression, not in hopelessness and
despair, but with what self-dedication
YOU are capable of, making of your re-
membrance a high communion, and you
shall go on to make of your life finer
fabric.
Over the sky of Memorial Day is shed
peculiar glow, a more gracious and
twilight radiance than that of any other
day, for there shines
That light that never was on sea or shore.
IT,. and the poets drea m.