 | Poems |  |
26
II. DEATH.
But if thou findest eyes that will not close,—Eyes that through suffering wet or, in despair
Guarding a secret which they cannot share,
Tearless refuse the respite of repose—
Not thine, sweet Sleep, to end the sufferer's woes;
Believe not thou canst dissipate a care
So dark; thy blandishments forbear;
There is a grief that no cessation knows.
Yet, ere thou goëst, hear the sufferer crave
One boon of thee, and oh! thou need'st not fear
To kill a sorrow where thou canst not save,
However dark the sad request appear—
Call thy more pallid brother of the grave,
He only is the true physician here.
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