 | Along the trail |  |
21
DEAD
Ah God! how strange the rattling in the street
Comes to me where I lie and the hours pass.
I watch a beetle crawling up the sheet
That covers me, and curiously note
The green and yellow back like mouldy brass,
And cannot even shudder at the thought
How soon the loathsome thing will reach my face.
Comes to me where I lie and the hours pass.
I watch a beetle crawling up the sheet
That covers me, and curiously note
The green and yellow back like mouldy brass,
And cannot even shudder at the thought
How soon the loathsome thing will reach my face.
And by such things alone I measure out
The slow drip of the minutes from Time's eaves.
For if I think of when I lived, I doubt
It was but yesterday I brushed the flowers;
But when I think of what I am, thought leaves
The weak mind dizzy in a waste of hours.
O God, how happy is the man that grieves!
The slow drip of the minutes from Time's eaves.
For if I think of when I lived, I doubt
It was but yesterday I brushed the flowers;
But when I think of what I am, thought leaves
The weak mind dizzy in a waste of hours.
O God, how happy is the man that grieves!
Life? It was life to look upon her face,
And it was life to rage when she was gone;
But this new horror!—In the market-place
A form, in all things like me as I moved
Of old, is marked or hailed of many an one
That takes it for his friend that lived and loved,—
And I laugh voicelessly, a laugh of stone.
And it was life to rage when she was gone;
But this new horror!—In the market-place
A form, in all things like me as I moved
Of old, is marked or hailed of many an one
That takes it for his friend that lived and loved,—
And I laugh voicelessly, a laugh of stone.
For here I lie and neither move nor feel,
And watch that Other pacing up and down
The room, or pausing at his potter's wheel
To turn out cunning vessels from the clay,
Vessels that he will hawk about the town,
And then return to work another day
Frowning; but I,—I neither smile nor frown.
And watch that Other pacing up and down
The room, or pausing at his potter's wheel
22
Vessels that he will hawk about the town,
And then return to work another day
Frowning; but I,—I neither smile nor frown.
I see him take his coat down from the peg
And put it on, and open the white door,
And brush some bit of cobweb from his leg,
And look about the room before he goes;
And then the clock goes ticking as before,
And I am with him and know all he does,
And I am here and tell each clock-tick o'er.
And put it on, and open the white door,
And brush some bit of cobweb from his leg,
And look about the room before he goes;
And then the clock goes ticking as before,
And I am with him and know all he does,
And I am here and tell each clock-tick o'er.
And men are praising him for subtle skill;
And women love him—God alone knows why!
He can have all the world holds at his will—
But this, to be a living soul, and this
No man but I can give him; and I lie
And make no sign, and care not what he is,
And hardly know if this indeed be I.
And women love him—God alone knows why!
He can have all the world holds at his will—
But this, to be a living soul, and this
No man but I can give him; and I lie
And make no sign, and care not what he is,
And hardly know if this indeed be I.
Ah, if she came and bent above me here,
Who lie with straight bands bound about my chin!
Ah, if she came and stood beside this bier
With aureoles as of old upon her hair
To light the darkness of this burial bin!
Should I not rise again and breathe the air
And feel the veins warm that the blood beats in?
Who lie with straight bands bound about my chin!
Ah, if she came and stood beside this bier
With aureoles as of old upon her hair
To light the darkness of this burial bin!
Should I not rise again and breathe the air
And feel the veins warm that the blood beats in?
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Or should I lie with sinews fixed and shriek
As dead men shriek and make no sound? Should I
See her gray eyes look love and hear her speak,
And be all impotent to burst my shroud?
Will the dead never rise from where they lie?
Or will they never cease to think so loud?
Or is to know and not to be, to die?
As dead men shriek and make no sound? Should I
See her gray eyes look love and hear her speak,
And be all impotent to burst my shroud?
Will the dead never rise from where they lie?
Or will they never cease to think so loud?
Or is to know and not to be, to die?
1890
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