Ah Death! what a weakling art makes thee--
The art of the frighten'd to death;
Gay curtains where glory forsakes thee--
A straw for the clutching last breath.
Where finds in religion a balm
So soothing, so cool and so far?
What solemn great hush and what calm?
Degraded to Portals ajar!
O where is the lyric of rest--?
O where is the song of the soul--?
Unfettered, unmastered, undrest
A nude and a beautiful whole.
O where is thy lyric of room,--
Unclouded immeasurable night?
O where is the song of the doom
Still flawless of hope or afright--?
Ah! cool as the night is the song
The dewy fresh song of my soul,
Sung always far over the throng
To a dewy unblemishing goal;
Some music still wand'ring, unstrung
Ungarnished, unmastered with art,
That haply some feverish young
May garner for treasure of heart.
But never the song that is sung--
The sweet measured tongue laps of art,
That silvers old age for the young,
Or maketh a ball room of heart.
Too great is the prestige O! Death,
Where Day ever bendeth at noon
For false chanting, or clutching for breath
At sight of the guerdon so soon.
Too great is thy prestige O! Death!
To flatter with scorn or with fright.
No promise so vain as that breath,
So great so great is thy night!