| |
| MY body, eh? Friend Death, how now? | |
| Why all this tedious pomp of writ? | |
| Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow | |
| For half a century, bit by bit. | |
| |
| In faith thou knowest more to-day | 5 |
| Than I do, where it can be found! | |
| This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, | |
| To which I now am chained and bound, | |
| |
| Has not of kith or kin a trace | |
| To the good body once I bore; | 10 |
| Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: | |
| Didst ever see that face before? | |
| |
| Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; | |
| Thy only fault thy lagging gait, | |
| Mistaken pity in thy heart | 15 |
| For timorous ones that bid thee wait. | |
| |
| Do quickly all thou hast to do, | |
| Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; | |
| I shall be free when thou art through; | |
| I grudge thee naught that thou must take! | 20 |
| |
| Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one, | |
| Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,— | |
| Two members which have faithful done | |
| My will and bidding in the past. | |
| |
| I grudge thee this right hand of mine; | 25 |
| I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; | |
| They never gave me coward sign, | |
| Nor played me once a traitor’s part. | |
| |
| I see now why in olden days | |
| Men in barbaric love or hate | 30 |
| Nailed enemies’ hands at wild crossways, | |
| Shrined leaders’ hearts in costly state: | |
| |
| The symbol, sign, and instrument | |
| Of each soul’s purpose, passion, strife, | |
| Of fires in which are poured and spent | 35 |
| Their all of love, their all of life. | |
| |
| O feeble, mighty human hand! | |
| O fragile, dauntless human heart! | |
| The universe holds nothing planned | |
| With such sublime, transcendent art! | 40 |
| |
| Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine | |
| Poor little hand, so feeble now; | |
| Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, | |
Its veins so pallid and so slow—
(Unfinished here.) | |
| |
| Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: | 45 |
| I shall be free when thou art through. | |
| Take all there is—take hand and heart: | |
There must be somewhere work to do.
Her last poem: 7 August, 1885. | |
| |
