Poetry Archives

O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car
  Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way
  Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,
My deeds in long procession go, that are
As mourners of the man they helped to mar.
  I see it all in dreams, such as waylay
  The wandering fancy when the solid day
Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night’s star,
Aloft there, with its steady point of light
  Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep.
Ah, when I die, and planets take their flight
  Above my grave, still let my spirit keep
Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse,
’Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o’er my corse!