 | Gathered in the gloaming |  |
24
A Last Page.
The Voice saith “Write.” The Voice saith “Write and die.”
I write and die. Faint, fainter on the page,
Line follows line, with dreary gasp and pause
Of agony. . . This book hath had the prime
And splendour of my being: it shall have
Its outflow and its ending. Make it good,
Heaven and the angels! Christ, confirm it good!
I write and die. Faint, fainter on the page,
Line follows line, with dreary gasp and pause
Of agony. . . This book hath had the prime
And splendour of my being: it shall have
Its outflow and its ending. Make it good,
Heaven and the angels! Christ, confirm it good!
Soft hands pluck at me—eyes, like tender stars,
Glimmer through deeps of dark. A sighing wind
Sweeps through my house of life and flutters wide
Its portals. . . Lo, I come! O Arms of God,
Ye everlasting Arms, uphold me here
On the dread verge! The Voice saith “Die.” . . I die.
Glimmer through deeps of dark. A sighing wind
Sweeps through my house of life and flutters wide
Its portals. . . Lo, I come! O Arms of God,
Ye everlasting Arms, uphold me here
On the dread verge! The Voice saith “Die.” . . I die.
| Gathered in the gloaming | |