The Conservative (Lovecraft)/July 1918/Upon the Brink

by Eugene Basil Kuntz

Upon the Brink

By Eugene B. Kuntz, D. D.

I’ve often stood upon the brink where Death
Holds out his wither’d hand to lead one hence
To realms invisible; and there the breath
Of strangest mystery from worlds immense,
Pass’d gently o’er my soul like odours sweet
From blossoms of immortal grace. I’ve stood
And long’d to go—and yet held back my feet
From paths which end in Life’s eternal good.

So oft I’ve wearied of the task which holds
Me fetter’d to my earthly lot, and sigh’d
For freedom and for rest from clinging folds
Of Time’s habiliment: and yet when wide
Dun shadows crept my way, me to embrace
In that long sleep, and bear me to Death’s shore,
I’ve turn’d to Earth again my tear-stain’d face,
Content to linger for a moment more.

’Tis not because I fear to die, my heart
Grows eager to remain: but Oh, there seems
So much one needs to do: so great a part
One dare not leave undone; so many dreams
That should be brought to sweet fruition’s goal:
So many Whys and Wherefores yet to test;
So many parts to join, so that the whole
May lastly answer Life’s most eager quest.

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