TREASURER

I OFTEN wonder what the Poetry Society does, now that I am dead —
Perhaps there is no Poetry Society —
Or, if there is one, it can only be a little one that survives —
How its members must muse on my name, and all that it meant to them!
It is a beautiful name, and very suggestive —
Miles! Miles! — and Menander!
Those words seem to inspire a vision of leafy labyrinths
And one who walked in them slowly with other sages —
Confucius — Socrates and many more, — talking and answering each other —
And then the end of my name, Dawson ,
Perhaps it was the end of my name that made me
Yukonic, like a river, ceaselessly flowing.
A chill, like the end of my name —
Reminiscent of cold countries —
Would creep over the Poetry Society
When I addressed them,
A curious numb look would spread over their faces,
As if they were snowed under —
Perhaps it was my name that did it —
The snow is heavy in the Klondike —
Dawson City is there, — but Miles M. Dawson, himself, lies under other snowflakes.