Ii

I seized the hands of Grief; I would not thus be thrown; But Death came like a thief Behind and seized my own

I held debate with Pain, And half persuaded her; Then came the utterance plain Of Death, the Answerer.

‘Cryest thou so before Thou sufferest?’ he said; ‘Wait yet a little more And thou shalt cry indeed.’

Sorrow so darkly veiled Will take my hand and lead. O Wisdom, thou hast failed, And Sorrow, she must lead;

And Death with her. He goes Before and readeth plain The painful list of those Dear ones whom he hath slain.

They fail, they fall, they sink, Torn from the treacherous sands; The deeps of death they drink And reach out madden’d hands.

A mist across the deep Of future and of past, The rock whereon we creep, The present we hold fast,

Visible alone. Around, The rolling wreathes of fog; The unseen surges sound; Dead eyes are in the fog.

We have no airy scope; We are not things that fly; We are but things that grope From hand to hand and die.

Not many friends, O God, Ours, and so far, so dear. So far that less manhood, Losing, can nobly bear

The loss, as, having, more Must love. What bitter loss To us so distant. For No dying word to us;

No hand in ours; not even To see the well-known spot, The room, the chair is given; To visit the sacred plot.

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