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Life is but life, and death but death! Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath! And if, indeed, I fail, At least to know the worst is sweet. Defeat means nothing but defeat, No drearier can prevail!
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think,
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.
Balking our wit To sound or circumvent, Hate cannot harm A foe so reticent.
New children play upon the green, New weary sleep below; And still the pensive spring returns, And still the punctual snow!
Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath.
She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer’s eve;
The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.
Today or this noon She dwelt so close, I almost touched her; Tonight she lies Past neighborhood — And bough and steeple — Now past surmise.
