the story of two lives.
11
Was that soft, golden hair all faded, dim?
Did those poor eyelids, 'neath their swollen rim,
Lose the arch sweetness of that bending curve
Which gave those eyes their delicate reserve?
Was it all marred and broke, that tender line
Of the small throat, so soft, so white, so fine?—
How impotent is Life! I would give all—
My fair possessions, and my ancient hall,
My stainless name, the world's so just esteem,
All that my pride could hope, ambition's dream—
To wander through some lawless misery,
Forlorn, and homeless, and outcast . . . with Thee!
To clasp once more the form upon that bed,
In its soiled rags. My God! found dead, found dead!
Did those poor eyelids, 'neath their swollen rim,
Lose the arch sweetness of that bending curve
Which gave those eyes their delicate reserve?
Was it all marred and broke, that tender line
Of the small throat, so soft, so white, so fine?—
How impotent is Life! I would give all—
My fair possessions, and my ancient hall,
My stainless name, the world's so just esteem,
All that my pride could hope, ambition's dream—
To wander through some lawless misery,
Forlorn, and homeless, and outcast . . . with Thee!
To clasp once more the form upon that bed,
In its soiled rags. My God! found dead, found dead!
Night's darkness gathers o'er the accusing skies,
The boding stars await a sacrifice—
I must arise from this damp tear-stained ground,
Where all my life seems bleeding through one wound.
I would each pang were prelude of disease,
Some fierce and mortal fever, which should seize
The boding stars await a sacrifice—
I must arise from this damp tear-stained ground,
Where all my life seems bleeding through one wound.
I would each pang were prelude of disease,
Some fierce and mortal fever, which should seize
