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THE DYING POET.
59
Thrilling to the whispered moaning
Of the spirit choir;
Fountains in my heart upgushing,
Dim remembrance o'er me rushing,
Eye and cheek most brightly flushing
With a welcome fire.
Of the spirit choir;
Fountains in my heart upgushing,
Dim remembrance o'er me rushing,
Eye and cheek most brightly flushing
With a welcome fire.
Did each season bring such gladness,
Rapture so mixed up with sadness,
Soon would a delicious madness
Steal my heart away:
Every leaf with crimson gleaming,
Is with pensive fancies teeming,
Bringing dim, unconscious dreaming,
Bright and brief as they.
Rapture so mixed up with sadness,
Soon would a delicious madness
Steal my heart away:
Every leaf with crimson gleaming,
Is with pensive fancies teeming,
Bringing dim, unconscious dreaming,
Bright and brief as they.
THE DYING POET.
He knew that he was dying; day by day
He felt the silver chords within his bosom
Mysteriously but palpably give way,
And he cared not that death so soon should loose them;
For a dull grief was carking in his breast,
That while his heart beat would not be at rest.
There had been flowers in his course at morn,
But one by one had withered on his way;
His heart was heavy, and his feet were torn,
And yet no close came to his weary day;
The night was distant, but he prayed to die
Before its shadows darkened in his sky.
