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THOMAS HOOD
Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd Anywhere, anywhere
In she plunged boldly- No matter how coldly
The rough river ran Over the brink of it, Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man' Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can'
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care; Fash ion 'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly'
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely,
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