 | Poems |  |
TO MY WATCH.
Prophet of death, thou who to me art crying,
With voice low and clear,
The doom of myself and of all who are dying
Through mortal hours here,
Do I fear
To hear thy dread voice, that, through day and night, never
Is hushed, but of death and of doom speaks for ever?
No, thy utterance is dear
To my listening ear.
With voice low and clear,
The doom of myself and of all who are dying
Through mortal hours here,
Do I fear
370
Is hushed, but of death and of doom speaks for ever?
No, thy utterance is dear
To my listening ear.
Prophet of doom, thou for ever art numbering
Life's hours as they go,
The moments that count us to that silent slumbering,
All breathing must know.
Is it woe
To hear thee, with pulse, like my living heart, beating
The step of each minute time's never repeating!
No, I school me to know
By faith, whither I go.
Life's hours as they go,
The moments that count us to that silent slumbering,
All breathing must know.
Is it woe
To hear thee, with pulse, like my living heart, beating
The step of each minute time's never repeating!
No, I school me to know
By faith, whither I go.
Prophet of life, not alone art thou telling
Of death unto all;
Not alone in thy tones are the bell's doleful knelling—
The shroud and the pall;
Thou dost call
The hosts of all life to new life never-ending,
New realms of the future, the present transcending,
Thou say'st death shall call,
Unto higher worlds, all.
Of death unto all;
Not alone in thy tones are the bell's doleful knelling—
The shroud and the pall;
Thou dost call
The hosts of all life to new life never-ending,
New realms of the future, the present transcending,
Thou say'st death shall call,
Unto higher worlds, all.
| Poems | |