(Unfinished here)
Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:
I shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is—take hand and heart:
There must be somewhere work to do.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
* Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.
WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.
Farewell, life! my senses swim.
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthly odor grows,—
I smell the mold above the rose!
Welcome, life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold,—
I smell the rose above the mold!
THOMAS HOOD.