I know not why—it is strange and fearful,
But I am afraid of her, lying there;
She who was always so gay and cheerful,
Lying so still with that stony stare:
She who was so like some grand sultana,
Fond of color and glow and heat,
To lie there clothed in that awful manner
In a stark white sheet.
She who was made out of summer blisses,
Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair,
To lie and stare at my fondest kisses—
God! no wonder it whitens my hair.
Shriek, oh, wind! for the world is lonely;
Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night’s feet!
For all that I prized in life is only
A shape and a sheet.
HIS YOUTH.
YING? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
I think you are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death’s cold embrace.
“But, man, you lie! for I am strong—in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth—life’s one great priceless boon.
“O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there’s no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I’d pause at, could it make me young to-day.
“But I’m not old! I grew—just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.
“And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.