Part 42

A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.

VII.

I read my sentence steadily, Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause, --

The date, and manner of the shame; And then the pious form That "God have mercy" on the soul The jury voted him.

I made my soul familiar With her extremity, That at the last it should not be A novel agony,

But she and Death, acquainted, Meet tranquilly as friends, Salute and pass without a hint -- And there the matter ends.

VIII.

I have not told my garden yet, Lest that should conquer me; I have not quite the strength now To break it to the bee.

I will not name it in the street, For shops would stare, that I, So shy, so very ignorant, Should have the face to die.

The hillsides must not know it, Where I have rambled so, Nor tell the loving forests The day that I shall go,

Nor lisp it at the table, Nor heedless by the way Hint that within the riddle One will walk to-day!

IX.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, -- No eye could find the place; But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.

The only ghost I ever saw Was dressed in mechlin, -- so; He wore no sandal on his foot, And stepped like flakes of snow. His gait was soundless, like the bird, But rapid, like the roe; His fashions quaint, mosaic, Or, haply, mistletoe.

His conversation seldom, His laughter like the breeze That dies away in dimples Among the pensive trees. Our interview was transient,-- Of me, himself was shy; And God forbid I look behind Since that appalling day!

XI.

Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, -- Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest The cautious grave exposes, Building where schoolboy dare not look And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children Early aged, and often cold, -- Sparrows unnoticed by the Father; Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

XII.

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here, --

In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

XIII.

MEMORIALS.

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until