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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
318
A QUESTION.
If I had been in love with Life, had Death
Seemed any ghastlier, more full of dread,
Or I shrank more from thought of being dead,
Sightless and still, and in my lips no breath,
Night all about me, and the dust beneath?
Not so, I think, for then I should have said:
“I have been glad, though now I make my bed
Where dead folk lie, and never a word one saith.”
Seemed any ghastlier, more full of dread,
Or I shrank more from thought of being dead,
Sightless and still, and in my lips no breath,
Night all about me, and the dust beneath?
Not so, I think, for then I should have said:
“I have been glad, though now I make my bed
Where dead folk lie, and never a word one saith.”
Harder seems this, — to die and leave the sun,
And carry hence each unfulfilled desire.
I heard one cry, “Come where the feast is spread;”
But when I came the festival was done;
Somewhile I shivered by the extinguished fire,
And now retrace my steps uncomforted.
And carry hence each unfulfilled desire.
I heard one cry, “Come where the feast is spread;”
But when I came the festival was done;
Somewhile I shivered by the extinguished fire,
And now retrace my steps uncomforted.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |