‘So soon,’ reflected I, ’the waters of life
Close o’er the sunken head!’ Reflected I,
Not that in truth I was more pitiful
To the poor dead than those about me were,
Nay, but a trick of thinking much on Life
And Death i’ the piece giveth each little strand
More deep significance—­love for the whole
Must make us tender for the parts, methinks,
As in some souls the equal law holds true,
Sorrow for one makes sorrow for the world. 
A fallen leaf or a dead flower indeed
Has made me just as sad, or some poor bee
Dead in the early summer—­what’s the odds? 
Death was at ‘48,’ and yet what sign? 
Who seemed to know? who could have known that called? 
For not a blind was lower than its wont—­
‘The lodgers would not like them down,’ you know—­
And in all rooms, save one, the boisterous life
Blazed like the fires within the several grates—­
Save one where lay the poor dead silent thing,
A closest chill as who hath sat at night
With love beside the ingle knows the ashes
In the morning.

Death was at ‘48,’
Yet Life and Love and Sunlight were there too. 
I ate and slept, and morning came at length
And brought my Lady’s letter to my bed: 
Thrice read and thirty kisses, came a thought,
As the sweet morning laughed about the room
Of the poor face downstairs, the sunshine there
Playing about it like a wakeful child
Whose weary mother sleepeth in the dawn,
Pressing soft fingers round about the eyes
To make them open, then with laughing shout
Making a gambol all her body’s length
Ah me! poor eyes that never open more! 
And mine as blithe to meet the morning’s glance
As thirsty lips to close on thirsty lips! 
Poor limbs no sun could ever warm again! 
And mine so eager for the coming day!

TIME FLIES

On drives the road—­another mile! and still
Time’s horses gallop down the lessening hill
O why such haste, with nothing at the end! 
Fain are we all, grim driver, to descend
And stretch with lingering feet the little way
That yet is ours—­O stop thy horses, pray!

Yet, sister dear, if we indeed had grace
To win from Time one lasting halting-place,
Which out of all life’s valleys would we choose,
And, choosing—­which with willingness would lose? 
Would we as children be content to stay,
Because the children are as birds all day;

Or would we still as youngling lovers kiss,
Fearing the ardours of the greater bliss? 
The maid be still a maid and never know
Why mothers love their little blossoms so
Or can the mother be content her bud
Shall never open out of babyhood?

Ah yes, Time flies because we fain would fly,
It is such ardent souls as you and I,
Greedy of living, give his wings to him—­
And now we grumble that he uses them!