Part 45

Essential oils are wrung: The attar from the rose Is not expressed by suns alone, It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays; But this, in lady's drawer, Makes summer when the lady lies In ceaseless rosemary.

XXVI.

I lived on dread; to those who know The stimulus there is In danger, other impetus Is numb and vital-less.

As 't were a spur upon the soul, A fear will urge it where To go without the spectre's aid Were challenging despair.

XXVII.

If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam, And noon should burn, As it has usual done; If birds should build as early, And bees as bustling go, -- One might depart at option From enterprise below! 'T is sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with daisies lie, That commerce will continue, And trades as briskly fly. It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene, That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!

XXVIII.

AT LENGTH.

Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought

A further force of life Developed from within, -- When Death lit all the shortness up, And made the hurry plain.

We wondered at our blindness, -- When nothing was to see But her Carrara guide-post, -- At our stupidity,

When, duller than our dullness, The busy darling lay, So busy was she, finishing, So leisurely were we!

XXIX.

GHOSTS.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one's own self encounter In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O'erlooking a superior spectre More near.

XXX.

VANISHED.

She died, -- this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

XXXI.

PRECEDENCE.

Wait till the majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered footman Might dare to touch it now!

Wait till in everlasting robes This democrat is dressed, Then prate about "preferment" And "station" and the rest!