"Come closer," she said, "my sister,
For I can not see your face.
The day grows dim, and the shadows grim,
Are gathering on apace.
I am glad that the night is coming:
I am weary, and want to rest.
What! do you weep, that I fall asleep
Leaning upon your breast?
"Oh, Sister, I am so tired:
How tired you can not know.
And a jarring pain, in my weary brain,
Beats like a cruel blow.
I think it will all have vanished,
After I sleep awhile.
How sweetly I rest, lying here on your breast.
In the warmth of your loving smile.
"Such a beautiful dream, my sister,
I dreamed while I slept last night.
I thought he was true: and he came with you,
And kissed me in love's delight.
And he said--. But I am so weary,
I will sleep ere I tell the rest."
But the sister wept, for the maiden slept
In the sleep of death, on her breast.
1869
[TWO COUNTS]
If I count my life by the ticking of clocks,
In the old methodical way,
If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks,
If I figure it out by the ceaseless flocks
Of hours that make a day,
If I count from the annual calendar,
And trust to the measured years in there,
Well, then I have turned, we'll say,
But a notch, or two, on the wheel of time;
I am still in the flush of my youths' glad prime;
My life is new,
As the count will say.
I am scarcely through
With the opening play.
I am, in truth.
In the flush of youth,
If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks,
And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks.
If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat,
Of the weary heart in my breast,
If I count by the aims that have met defeat,
And the vain, vain search for rest,
If I count by tears,
And by haunting fears,
By hopes that were all in vain,
By dear trusts shattered,
And good ships battered,
And lost on the treacherous main,
By faith unfounded,
And love death-wounded,
If I reckon it thus, why then
Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say,
Full three-score years, and ten.
1870
[THE WATCHER ]
"I think I hear the sound of horses' feet.
Beating upon the gravelled avenue.
Go to the window that looks on the street!
He would not let me die, alone, I knew!"
Back to the couch the patient watcher passed.
And said, "It is the wailing of the blast."