Poems (Terry, 1861)/The sutter
THE SUTTEE.
Come, thou dead image, to thy rest! The flashing embers wait for thee,And heaped above my panting breast Lie faggots fit thy couch to be.
I know thee now, cold shape of clay, Whose life was but a thrill from mine!—One gasp, and undeceiving day Showed the base thing no more divine.
Lo! I have framed a costly pyre; There lie those dreams with wandering eyes,And hopes, too ashen now for fire, Strew pathways to the sacrifice.
I am a widow, and shall I Linger a living death away?Here on the dead, I, too, will die, Quick! lest the flesh refuse to stay.
Burn! burn! glare upward to the skies, Paint the low hills and creeping night;Louder the shrieking south-wind cries, And terror speeds the lessening light.
Slowly these eager tongues aspire; I shudder, though they set me free.;Go, coward senses, to the fire— But the wing'd soul, oh God! to Thee!