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DEATH.
Animula vagula blandula.....
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Marcus Aurelius.
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Marcus Aurelius.
Thou diest as the elders died—
As we are dying now;
The sister with the brother's kiss
Yet moist upon her brow—
As we are dying now;
The sister with the brother's kiss
Yet moist upon her brow—
The father with his stalwart sons—
The bridegroom with the bride—
The true meek wife with that frail thing
That throbs beneath her side—
The bridegroom with the bride—
The true meek wife with that frail thing
That throbs beneath her side—
The mother with her little child,
Her dear, her only one—
The lover in the lover's arms—
The pale recluse, alone.
Her dear, her only one—
The lover in the lover's arms—
The pale recluse, alone.
Like these thou diest—many friends,
Some far unrisen day,
Shall come and look upon thy place,—
But thou shalt be away:
Some far unrisen day,
Shall come and look upon thy place,—
But thou shalt be away:
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Like these thou diest, and like all:
Then wherefore do I care
To trouble with vain thoughts of thee
The dull regardless air?
Then wherefore do I care
To trouble with vain thoughts of thee
The dull regardless air?
Why vex again the wearied words
That minister to woe,
Or shed the precious balms of song
For such a common blow?
That minister to woe,
Or shed the precious balms of song
For such a common blow?
Because the ancient marvel still
Is wondrous in our eyes,—
Thy single Being, tense and warm,
Chills into twain, and dies;
Is wondrous in our eyes,—
Thy single Being, tense and warm,
Chills into twain, and dies;
They cleave and part, thyself and thou,
And one, the bright and brave,
Becomes a memory and a ghost,
And one is in the grave:
And one, the bright and brave,
Becomes a memory and a ghost,
And one is in the grave:
Because no spirit of the earth,—
For all the dusky wings
That grate across his heart and sweep
Shrill sorrow from the strings,
For all the dusky wings
That grate across his heart and sweep
Shrill sorrow from the strings,
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And tho' to us the starkest corpse
A sleeping beauty seems,
And steep'd is all its slumbrous state
In the rich dew of dreams—
A sleeping beauty seems,
And steep'd is all its slumbrous state
In the rich dew of dreams—
Hath yet avail'd to speak or solve
The mystery of Death;
Or lessen to our grasp of thought
The secret of our breath,—
The mystery of Death;
Or lessen to our grasp of thought
The secret of our breath,—
The ‘daily miracle’ of Life,
And whence its workings wend;
The mystery of mysteries—
The Purpose, and the End.
And whence its workings wend;
The mystery of mysteries—
The Purpose, and the End.
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