University of Virginia Library

LXXXI
DEATH

i

O thou slight word, most like to breath, and made
Of a few letters merely, what's in thee,
Terror of flesh, the spirit's ecstasy,
Mysterious, voiceless, shadow of a shade?
They that fear nothing else, of thee afraid,
Do call thee Sleep and Passing. Thou set'st free
Infinite shapes of all a man may be,
Yet at thy nothingness he shrinks dismayed.
If thou wert not, the Poets had been dumb,
And Music silent. Yea, majestic Art
Had never sought and found her better part
Nor by the living eyes betrayed the heart.
Great prophecy were an unmeaning hum,
What-is no longer holding what's-to-come.

ii

I have wept for those who on this turning earth
Had lived more years than I—who were to me
The aim and goal of my felicity,
The dear reward of effort, crown of worth.
And I have wept for babes who died at birth,
Most deeply moved that I should never see
The flower and fruit of all the days to be,
A younger youth than mine, a merrier mirth.
But never ere this day I felt the sting
Of terror lest my burning tears should fall
For one who felt when first I felt the spring,
Heard from the wood the self-same cuckoo call,
Heard the same robin in the autumn sing,
Was one with me in life—in love—in all.

iii