 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
58
HIPPOCRATES.
Dust unto dust; the silver spinal cordShall soon be loosed; the forehead's golden bowl,
That precious chalice for the wine of soul,
Be shivered, and its treasure all outpour'd;
The cell-stopt veins, that, as an emptying vase,
Pour back upon the heart its weaken'd stream,
Be shattered all; the circling wheel that draws
From a strange cistern,—this corporeal frame,—
Moisture and increase, must be broken up;
And with the shock we wake from life's dull dream:
Still, oftentimes the wholesome bitter cup,
The glory, great physician, of thine art,
Shall wondrously from ill-timed death redeem,
Rallying the routed forces of the heart.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |