True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
Told to Him—
The Grave is strict—
Tickets admit
Just two—the Bearer—
And the Borne—
And seat—just One—
The Living—tell—
The Dying—but a Syllable—
The Coy Dead—None—
No Chatter—here—no tea—
So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—
But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—
A tremor just, that All’s not sure.
Death—had the same design—But the Success—was His—it seems—And the Surrender—Mine—I meant to tell Her how I longedFor just this single time—But Death had told Her so the first—And she had past, with Him—To wander—now—is my Repose—To rest—To rest would beA privilege of HurricaneTo Memory—and Me.
No Message, but a Sigh—For Whom, the Time did not sufficeThat She should specify.She was not warm, though Summer shoneNor scrupulous of coldThough Rime by Rime, the steady FrostUpon Her Bosom piled—Of shrinking ways—she did not frightThough all the Village looked—But held Her gravity aloft—And met the gaze—direct—And when adjusted like a SeedIn careful fitted…
There’s Triumph in the RoomWhen that Old Imperator—Death—By Faith
It has a Garret alsoFor Refuse and the Mouse.Besides the deepest CellarThat ever Mason laid –Look to it by its FathomsOurselves be not pursued –
When Certain it must die—‘Tis deemed a privilege to choose—‘Twas Major Andre’s Way—When Choice of Life—is past—There yet remains a LoveIts little Fate to stipulate—How small in those who live—The Miracle to teaseWith Bable of the styles—How ‘they are Dying mostly—now’—And Customs at ‘St. James’!
Just felt the world go by!Just girt me for the onset with Eternity,When breath blew back,And on the other sideI heard recede the disappointed tide!Therefore, as One returned, I feelOdd secrets of the line to tell!Some Sailor, skirting foreign shores—Some pale Reporter, from the awful doorsBefore the Seal!Next time, to stay!Next time, the things to…
