Death.

If days should pass without a written word
    To tell me of thy welfare, and if days
    Should lengthen out to weeks, until the maze
Of questioning fears confused me, and I heard.
    Life-sounds as echoes; and one came and said
    After these weeks of waiting: "He is dead!"

Though the quick sword had found the vital part,
    And the life-blood must mingle with the tears,
    I think that, as the dying soldier hears
The cries of victory, and feels his heart
    Surge with his country's triumph-hour, I could
    Hope bravely on, and feel that God was good.

I could take up my thread of life again
    And weave my pattern though the colors were
    Faded forever. Though I might not dare
Dream often of thee, I should know that when
    Death came to thee upon thy lips my name
    Lingered, and lingers ever without blame.

Aye, lingers ever. Though we may not know
    Much that our spirits crave, yet is it given
    To us to feel that in the waiting Heaven
Great souls are greater, and if God bestow
    A mighty love He will not let it die
    Through the vast ages of eternity.

But if some day the bitter knowledge swept
    Down on my life, - bearing my treasured freight
    To founder on the shoals of scorn, - what Fate
Smiling with awful irony had kept
    Till life grew sweeter, - that my god was clay,
    That 'neath thy strength a lurking weakness lay;

That thou, whom I had deemed a man of men
    Faulty, as great men are, but with no taint
    Of baseness, - with those faults that shew the saint
Of after days, perhaps, - wert even then
    When first I loved thee but a spreading tree
    Whose leaves shewed not its roots' deformity;

I should not weep, for there are wounds that lie
    Too deep for tears, - and Death is but a friend
    Who loves too dearly, and the parting end
Of Love's joy-day a paltry pain, a cry
    To God, then peace, - beside the torturing grief
    When honor dies, and trust, and soul's belief.

Travellers have told that in the Java isles
    The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out
    Into the air; there needs no hand about
Its branches for the poison's deadly wiles
    To work a strong man's hurt, for there is death
    Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.

So would I breathe thy poison in my soul,
    Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true
    Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew.
Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole
    From his far sister, I should bear thy blight
    Upon me as I passed into the night.

Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much
    To me, Dear Heart? Oh! I am full of tears
    To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears.
Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch,
    For Time is long, and though I may not will
    To question Fate, I am a woman still.