 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
SONNET.—DEATH.
“Our birth is nothing but our death begun,
As tapers waste that instant they take fire.”—
Young.
As tapers waste that instant they take fire.”—
Young.
I look upon the stars—upon the Moon—
And on the green things of the living Earth—
And say unto myself. Too soon, too soon—
Will I be made to leave thee to go forth
Into the haven of my quiet rest—
The stern, cold grave!—there to remain,
As silent as each clod upon my breast—
Never to wake up from that sleep again!
Not in the joyous spring-time of the year—
Nor in the Summer—nor the Autumn—Fall—
Nor Winter!—nothing shall be there as here—
No friendship, music, love, nor joy—for all
Is barren on that cold, oblivious shore,
From which we shall return—NO, NEVER MORE!
New York, May 15th, 1841.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |