MAY, 1853.
To one whose wine of life
Blushed under lilies, Death victorious spake,
Proving the temper of his keen-edged sword
On that light feather, hope.
"Thou infidel!
Knowing my touch in every flower that falls,
Yet my the tenor of thine unawed life
Ever denying me.
Once was it thus?
As one who dwells in valleys, yet looks up
Prom flowers and sun-barred paths to bid his thoughts
Light on the circling snow-peaks, thou didst lift
Early, thy soul to me. If now thou fearest,
Yet when the wasting of thy life began,
Strange pleasure mixed with awe.
Blushed under lilies, Death victorious spake,
Proving the temper of his keen-edged sword
On that light feather, hope.
"Thou infidel!
Knowing my touch in every flower that falls,
Yet my the tenor of thine unawed life
Ever denying me.
Once was it thus?
As one who dwells in valleys, yet looks up
Prom flowers and sun-barred paths to bid his thoughts
Light on the circling snow-peaks, thou didst lift
Early, thy soul to me. If now thou fearest,
Yet when the wasting of thy life began,
Strange pleasure mixed with awe.
