 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
NOT DEATH, BUT LIFE.
I am not dead, belovèd, would I were!
My spirit has not ceased to beat with thine;
Only my hope is dead; and Peace divine
Lies dead upon Hope's tomb, while black Despair,
Repeating ever an unanswered prayer,
Gives me to drink his sacramental wine,
And sacramental bread to eat, in sign
That I am his till death, his robes to bear.
My spirit has not ceased to beat with thine;
Only my hope is dead; and Peace divine
Lies dead upon Hope's tomb, while black Despair,
Repeating ever an unanswered prayer,
Gives me to drink his sacramental wine,
And sacramental bread to eat, in sign
That I am his till death, his robes to bear.
I am not dead! I have not died with thee.
This is no sleep, perpetual as time.
Dead lips are mute, and dead eyes cannot see
Pale memories and half-dreamed dreams of bliss;
Dead feet have rest, but living feet must climb
The steep round which the eternal darkness is.
This is no sleep, perpetual as time.
Dead lips are mute, and dead eyes cannot see
Pale memories and half-dreamed dreams of bliss;
Dead feet have rest, but living feet must climb
The steep round which the eternal darkness is.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |