Part 17

And we, we placed the hair, And drew the head erect; And then an awful leisure was, Our faith to regulate.

XXI.

THE FIRST LESSON.

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf, Clasped yet to him and me.

And yet, my primer suits me so I would not choose a book to know Than that, be sweeter wise; Might some one else so learned be, And leave me just my A B C, Himself could have the skies.

XXII.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, --

The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

XXIII.

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt; But what of that?

I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that?

I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?

XXIV.

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me.

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity's decree.

Of resurrection? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my crown!

XXV.

DYING.

The sun kept setting, setting still; No hue of afternoon Upon the village I perceived, -- From house to house 't was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still; No dew upon the grass, But only on my forehead stopped, And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still, My fingers were awake; Yet why so little sound myself Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before! I could not see it now. 'T is dying, I am doing; but I'm not afraid to know.

XXVI.

Two swimmers wrestled on the spar Until the morning sun, When one turned smiling to the land. O God, the other one!

The stray ships passing spied a face Upon the waters borne, With eyes in death still begging raised, And hands beseeching thrown.

XXVII.

THE CHARIOT.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.