_“I, John Pierpont Morgan,
... commit my soul into the
hands of my Savior, in full confidence
that having redeemed
and washed it in His most precious
blood He will present it
faultless before the throne of
my Heavenly Father.”_
--_The Last Will and Testament
of John Pierpont Morgan._
When all was silent and the gloom
Grew thick, the dead man rose. The mask
Slipped. Loath to tarry in the room,
He glanced not at the agate casque;
Nor at his tapestries, his scrolls,
The ransom of an hundred kings--
For he that conquers life, his soul’s
Wraith is not chained to mundane things.
His cane with slow, deliberate care
Swinging, along the street moved he,
Until he reached the Golden Stair
That only dead men’s eyes may see.
Of newly dead a spirit host
Made low obeisance when he came.
Though some be saved and some be lost,
He was the Master of the Game
In life and death. A grunt, a nod,
Thanked them. They nudged each other’s sides
For each was fettered to the sod
By some earth memory. A bride’s
Caress. A lad’s clean limbs. The sheen
In a child’s face. A battle won.
A crime. A dream. What might have been.
--August, untroubled he passed on.
He puffed at his cigar. The spheres
Made music. Then the ceaseless drone
Of prayer went up. By myriad tiers
Encircled rose the Holy Throne.
With no uncertainty of fate
He brushed aside the angel throng
And strode through the emblazoned gate
Into the Heaven of the Strong.