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.
As one who sings
Aloud to deafen sorrow, thou mayst drown
Awhile my solemn warning. Yet thine eyes
Bead me in all things. All things offer thee
Only my gifts. To thee the sunshine brings
Fever and faintness. By fresh summer winds,
Grave damps are blown.
A little while, poor fool,
Life shall make sport of thee. There shall be times
When she will breathe new vigour through thy limbs,
Smile through thine eyes, lend to thy heavy step
Deceitful lightness. I, that stand so near,
Will seem afar. Spring hopes will bloom again
Like those November violets the gaunt frost
Takes in his shrivelled fingers. Then, some day,
While thou dost shudder and grow pale to cross
December's snowy threshold—some dull day
When winter, through the early April woods,
Gathering his tatters round him, stalks and scares
The blossoms back, thou'lt meet me face to face
Upon that narrow path, not wide enough
For me and thee."
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.
As one who sings
Aloud to deafen sorrow, thou mayst drown
Awhile my solemn warning. Yet thine eyes
Bead me in all things. All things offer thee
Only my gifts. To thee the sunshine brings
Fever and faintness. By fresh summer winds,
Grave damps are blown.
A little while, poor fool,
Life shall make sport of thee. There shall be times
When she will breathe new vigour through thy limbs,
Smile through thine eyes, lend to thy heavy step
Deceitful lightness. I, that stand so near,
Will seem afar. Spring hopes will bloom again
Like those November violets the gaunt frost
Takes in his shrivelled fingers. Then, some day,
While thou dost shudder and grow pale to cross
December's snowy threshold—some dull day
When winter, through the early April woods,
Gathering his tatters round him, stalks and scares
The blossoms back, thou'lt meet me face to face
Upon that narrow path, not wide enough
For me and thee."