Sonett-Forum

Oh ! there's an awful pleasure which doth thrill
The soul when standing by the dying bed
Of one whose falt'ring tongue will soon be still
In death, to think th' immortal will have sped

A moment's space, where piercing thought is lost
In the immensity it contemplates ;
Like an unequal vessel strain'd and lost.
Then swallow'd by that gulph the surge creates.

The absorbing thought ! spirit here, " now there,"
The eye glistening with its parting light
Closing upon the earth, re-op'ning where
Perchance 'twill gleam angelically bright
To prove that eVry virtuous tear hath giv'n
Life to tho ransom'd soul— the flow'r of Heav'n.