AFTER THE PLAY
You say I'm dying! It is so, I think:
All pain has left me, and I seem to sink—
A child, content, back to the Mother's breast.
Life grew full sweet of late,—but death is best.
I wanted just this one last quiet hour
To tell you how hope grew fruition's flower,—
Giving me, in a moment, bliss to know,
Beyond what tranquil ages might bestow.
You must not weep, my friend! Consider still
How many lives go frustrate of their will;
How many spend in vain, and fruitless tire!—
I near the goal of my supreme desire.
Your tears reproach the happiness I feel,
And from this dear contentment something steal.
Smile, if you can, beloved! nor delay
What I would tell you ere I go my way.
| · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · |
Love gives but as Love will: this have I proved,
Who through long wistful years have vainly loved,
Yet find my life at last on death's sheer brink—
Of purest joy from lethal fountains drink.
| · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · | · |
