I looked into the night and saw
God writing with tumultuous flame
Upon the thunder's front of awe,—
As on sonorous brass,—the Law,
Terrific, of His judgement name.
Weary of all life's best and worst,
With hands of hate, I—who had pled,
I, who had prayed for death at first
And had not died—now stood and cursed
God, yet he would not strike me dead.
Memories.
Here where Love lies perishèd,
Look not in upon the dead;
Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken
In my Heart's dark chamber, waken
Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow
Whilom gladness bows his head:
When you come at morn to-morrow,
Look not in upon the dead,
Here where Love lies perishèd.
Here where Love lies cold interred,
Let no syllable be heard;
Lest the hollow echoes, housing
In my Soul's deep tomb, arousing
Wake a voice of woe, once laughter
Claimed and clothed in joy's own word:
When you come at dusk or after,
Let no syllable be heard,
Here where Love lies cold interred.