Normale Version: Innsley, Owen: Outre-Mort
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Suppose the dreaded messenger of death
Should hasten steps that seem, though sure, so slow,
And soon should whisper with his chilly breath:
"Arise! thine hour has sounded, thou must go;
For they that earliest taste life's holiest feast
Must early fast, lest, grown too bold, they dare
Of them that follow after seize the share."
Then, though my pulse's beat forever ceased,
If where I slumbered thou shouldst chance to pass,
Though grave-bound, I thy presence should discern,
Heedless of coffin-lid and tangled grass,
Upward to kiss thy feet my lips would yearn;
And did one spark of love thy heart inflame,
With the old rapture I should call thy name.