ON THE DEATH OF E. P.
Thou art not dead, thou couldst not die;
But thou art changed—from grief to joy:
Thy weakness now has put on strength;
Thy mortal, immortality.
That heart that throbbed with purest love,
That heart that thrilled with deepest woe,
Rests like a wanderer at home,
And beats with love and joy alone.
Thy life, like a bright vision passed,
Thy soul, the spirit of the dream:
Pleasure and pain, with ceaseless strife,
Contended for thy noble heart:
Sorrow oft spread her chilling pall
And darkened all thy sky;
Then joy, with her gay flashes, broke
The gloomy darkness sorrow spread.
There 's not a lovely transient thing
But brings thee to my mind:
The rainbow, or the blighted flower,
Sweet summer's fading joys,
The waning moon, the dying day,
The passing glories of the clouds,
But thou art changed—from grief to joy:
Thy weakness now has put on strength;
Thy mortal, immortality.
That heart that throbbed with purest love,
That heart that thrilled with deepest woe,
Rests like a wanderer at home,
And beats with love and joy alone.
Thy life, like a bright vision passed,
Thy soul, the spirit of the dream:
Pleasure and pain, with ceaseless strife,
Contended for thy noble heart:
Sorrow oft spread her chilling pall
And darkened all thy sky;
Then joy, with her gay flashes, broke
The gloomy darkness sorrow spread.
There 's not a lovely transient thing
But brings thee to my mind:
The rainbow, or the blighted flower,
Sweet summer's fading joys,
The waning moon, the dying day,
The passing glories of the clouds,
