To Death
(On Hearing of the Illness of E. de V.)
Hast thou then wrapped us in thy shadow, Death!
Already in the very dawn of joy?
And in cold triumph dreamest to destroy
The last and dearest hope which lingereth
Within my desolated heart? to blast
The young unfolding bud? and dash away,
As in some desert-demon's cruel play,
The cup my parch'd lips had begun to taste?
O Impotent! O very Phantom! know,
Bounds are there to thy ravage even here;
Sanctuaries inaccessible to fear
Are in the heart of man while yet below:
Love, not of sense, can wake such communings
As are among the Soul's eternal things.
(On Hearing of the Illness of E. de V.)
Hast thou then wrapped us in thy shadow, Death!
Already in the very dawn of joy?
And in cold triumph dreamest to destroy
The last and dearest hope which lingereth
Within my desolated heart? to blast
The young unfolding bud? and dash away,
As in some desert-demon's cruel play,
The cup my parch'd lips had begun to taste?
O Impotent! O very Phantom! know,
Bounds are there to thy ravage even here;
Sanctuaries inaccessible to fear
Are in the heart of man while yet below:
Love, not of sense, can wake such communings
As are among the Soul's eternal things.