"DEATH."
O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun--
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true--
And what is life, that we should moan? Why make we such ado?
What! Min dead--my darling whom I had hurried home to see once more,
the whisper of whose calling I had heard across the expanse of vast
Atlantic in eager entreaty; and whose tender, clinging affection I had
looked forward to, as the earnest of all my toils and struggles, my
longing hopes, my halting doubts, my groans, my tears!
It could not be.
I would not believe it. God could not be so cruel as man; and what man
would do such a heartless deed?
It was false. Could I not hear her merry, rippling laughter, as she
came forth heart-joyous to greet me; see the dear, soul-lit, grey eyes
beaming with happiness and love; feel her perfumed violet breath as she
raised her darling little rosebud of a mouth to mine--as I had fancied,
and pictured it all, over and over again, a thousand times and more?
Hark! was not that her glad voice speaking now in silvery accents--"O,
Frank!" nothing more; but, a world of welcome in the simple syllables?
Dead!
How could she be dead, when I was waiting to hear from her truth-
telling, loving lips what she had written to tell me already--that she
trusted me again, as she had trusted me in those old, old days that had
passed by never to return; and, loved me still in spite of all?
Dead! It was a lie. They wanted to deceive me. They were joking with
me!
Min, my darling, dead? It could not be. It was impossible!
Did they take me for a fool?