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54
LAURA.
Death, with the noiseless step, whose form has appeared on my threshold,Turns and proceeds on his way, knocking at other men's doors;
Ay, at the doors of the strong, at the doors of the young and the happy,
Even of those who, of late, seemed out of reach and secure.
Death, O thou Thing inconsistent, that snatchest, in passing, the blossom,
Leaving the fruit that is ripe, ready to drop at thy touch,
Were there not others to take on the path thou wast silently treading?
Why hast thou taken this girl, surely the fairest that was?
What! when so many there be, whose mission on earth is accomplished,
Waiting thy call undismayed, laden with honours and years—
What! when so many there be, who are lying in pain and implore thee,
Wretches to whom, from disease, life has a burden become—
What! when so many there be, who are plucking the hem of thy garment,
Courting thy chilly embrace, sated with ills undeserved,—
This is the one thou selectest? a creature of youth and of beauty
Still all in love with her life? Death, thou art wanton indeed!
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