Sir J. M. Barrie

(Obit June 19, 1937)

He played his little hour upon the stage—
Brief interlude we call the mortal span—
This best-loved writer of his race and age,
This kindliest critic of his fellow man,
So gently wise, who in his wisdom found
In human hearts a mystery most profound.

He sought the gold and scorned the deadly dross
That masks the treasure in the lowliest soul;
His minted coin was spent to no man’s loss,
True realist who, seeing mankind whole,
Revealed within the mightiest and the least
That better part which lifts man from the beast.

A sentimentalist they said of him,
The dreary cynics ’midst the worldly-wise
Who grope amid the sordid and the grim
And find no realism save in sties
Because they are so proud, so set apart
From understanding of the human heart.

Cynics have smeared us with their precious mud,
Tyrants have battened on a nation’s need,
Imposed new faiths and drenched their lands with blood;
But he, e’er steadfast to his stubborn creed
Found in true sentiment a shining thing,
Beacon towards life’s last reckoning.

A sentimentalist, he was more wise
Than all the cold computers of earth’s ills.
He found the heartening truth in children’s eyes,
And in old women’s souls that which instils
Eternal hope that through the ages stood
To lead us yet to human brotherhood.

Love was the theme on which he deftly played
A thousand variations subtly sweet;
So near perfection, all that he essayed
Came perilously near to art complete;
And yet, just missing cold perfection’s thrill,
Still kept him human and beloved of all.

Now, from a window in old Thrums, the son
Departs to greet the mother; draw the blind.
An old man passes with his labors done;
Yet there remains that wisely youthful mind
To seek immortally the heart of man,
For ever young as his own Peter Pan.