Page:Poems (Clement C. Moore).djvu/235

But mark me well—I would not change one jot
Of Heaven's decrees, to meliorate my lot:
Farewell to earthly bliss, to all that's bright!
No thought rebels; I know, I feel 'tis right.
Nor should I mourn as though of all bereft:
Some transient pleasures, here and there, are left;
Some short-liv'd flowers that in the forest bloom,
And scatter fragrance in the settled gloom.
I look not round, and peevishly repine,
As though no other sorrow equall'd mine.
I boast no proud preeminence of pain—
But oh! these spectres that infest my brain!
My death-struck child, with nostrils breathing wide,
Turning in vain, for ease, from side to side;
The fitful flush that lit her half-closed eye,
And burned her sunken cheek; her plaintive cry;
Her dying gasp; and, as she sank to rest,
Her wither'd hands cross'd gently o'er her breast.
My dying wife's emaciated form,
So late, with youthful spirit fresh and warm.
The deep, but noiseless anguish of her mind
At leaving all she lov'd on earth behind.