Poems (Procter)/A Tryst with Death
A TRYST WITH DEATH.
AM footsore and very weary, But I travel to meet a Friend:The way is long and dreary, But I know that it soon must end.He is travelling fast like the whirlwind, And though I creep slowly on,We are drawing nearer, nearer, And the journey is almost done.
Through the heat of many summers, Through many a spring-time rain,Through long autumns and weary winters, I have hoped to meet him in vain.
I know that he will not fail me, So I count every hour chime,Every throb of my own heart's beating, That tells of the flight of Time.
On the day of my birth he plighted His kingly word to me:— I have seen him in dreams so often, That I know what his smile must be.
I have toiled through the sunny woodland, Through fields that basked in the light;And through the lone paths in the forest I crept in the dead of night.
I will not fear at his coming, Although I must meet him alone;He will look in my eyes so gently, And take my hand in his own.
Like a dream all my toil will vanish, When I lay my head on his breast:But the journey is very weary, And he only can give me rest!