 | Words by the Wayside |  |
114
Baroness Burdett Coutts
What mockery, Death, to let thy scythe-blade sweep
Where was no power to reap!
For what is here that thou couldst hope to slay?
Or how wrest wealth away,
Long since by one who wist the worth thereof
Translated into love,
And benedictions of unnumbered years,
And these fast-falling tears?
Where was no power to reap!
For what is here that thou couldst hope to slay?
Or how wrest wealth away,
Long since by one who wist the worth thereof
Translated into love,
And benedictions of unnumbered years,
And these fast-falling tears?
God's millionaire and hoarder of true gold!
Treasure that grows not old,
Maugre thy forfeit laid on them that sleep,
She doth inviolate keep:
And this frail, venerable form, that lies
So low with lid-fast eyes,
Shall for thy darkening but the more appear
Imperishably dear.
Treasure that grows not old,
Maugre thy forfeit laid on them that sleep,
She doth inviolate keep:
And this frail, venerable form, that lies
So low with lid-fast eyes,
Shall for thy darkening but the more appear
Imperishably dear.
| Words by the Wayside | |