Part 67

A sickness of this world it most occasions When best men die; A wishfulness their far condition To occupy.

A chief indifference, as foreign A world must be Themselves forsake contented, For Deity.

XXXIV.

Superfluous were the sun When excellence is dead; He were superfluous every day, For every day is said

That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair, And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates If love inquire, 'Where?'

Upon his dateless fame Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous From an abundant sky.

XXXV.

So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed.

So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy.

XXXVI.

FAREWELL.

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord, Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses -- Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side, So I shall never fall; For we must ride to the Judgment, And it's partly down hill.

But never I mind the bridges, And never I mind the sea; Held fast in everlasting race By my own choice and thee.

Good-by to the life I used to live, And the world I used to know; And kiss the hills for me, just once; Now I am ready to go!

XXXVII.

The dying need but little, dear, -- A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall,

A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret, And certainly that one No color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone.

XXXVIII.

DEAD.

There's something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast, And will not tell its name.

Some touch it and some kiss it, Some chafe its idle hand; It has a simple gravity I do not understand!

While simple-hearted neighbors Chat of the 'early dead,' We, prone to periphrasis, Remark that birds have fled!

XXXIX.

The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her.

Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.

XL.

Three weeks passed since I had seen her, -- Some disease had vexed; 'T was with text and village singing I beheld her next,