In faith thou knowest more to-day
Than I do, where it can be found! This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,
To which I now am chained and bound,
Has not of kith or kin a trace
To the good body once I bore; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:
Didst ever see that face before?
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart
For timorous ones that bid thee wait.
Do quickly all thou hast to do,
Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; I shall be free when thou art through;
I grudge thee naught that thou must take!
Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,— Two members which have faithful done
My will and bidding in the past.
I grudge thee this right hand of mine;
I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; They never gave me coward sign,
Nor played me once a traitor's part.
I see now why in olden days
Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,
Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:
The symbol, sign, and instrument
Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent
Their all of love, their all of life.
O feeble, mighty human hand!
O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned
With such sublime, transcendent art!
Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine
Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow—