Poems (Whitney)/To the same

by Anne Whitney

TO THE SAME.  BY A MISER'S PENSIONER.

Once, spirit, as a little child, I wentUnto the burning mount, where thou didst stoopTo pluck me from low cares and sorrows up,My inspiration, my abandonment.Thou camest, because the messengers I sentWere love and noble longings. I was givenTo that self-losing which restores us heaven.But now my sacrificial robe is rent,And turns to ashes in the poisonous breathOf this low life—and fast contract mine eyesTo meet the glare of colored vanities.—In passionless self-possession croucheth death;Better than this were agony and strife—Wake me to life, if need be, bleeding life!