RELEASED.

Oh, joy of the dying! At last thou art mine. And leaping to meet thee, Impatient to greet thee, A rapid and rapturous, sensitive, fine Gayety steals through my pulses to-day, Daring and doubting like pleasure Forbidden, or Winter looking at May.

Oh, sorrow of living! Make way for the thrill Of the soul that is starting— Onlooking—departing Across the threshold of clay. Bend, bow to the will Of the soul that is up and away!