I should not dare to leave my friend,Because — because if he should dieWhile I was gone, and I — too late —Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyesThat hunted, hunted so, to see,And could not bear to shut untilThey "noticed" me — they noticed me;
If I should stab the patient faithSo sure I 'd come — so sure I 'd come,It listening, listening, went to sleepTelling my tardy name, —
My heart would wish it broke before,Since breaking then, since breaking then,Were useless as next morning's sun,Where midnight frosts had lain!
Great streets of silence led awayTo neighborhoods of pause;Here was no notice, no dissent,No universe, no laws.
By clocks 't was morning, and for nightThe bells at distance called;But epoch had no basis here,For period exhaled.
A throe upon the featuresA hurry in the breath,An ecstasy of partingDenominated "Death," —
An anguish at the mention,Which, when to patience grown,I 've known permission givenTo rejoin its own.
Of tribulation these are theyDenoted by the white;The spangled gowns, a lesser rankOf victors designate.
All these did conquer; but the onesWho overcame most timesWear nothing commoner than snow,No ornament but palms.
Surrender is a sort unknownOn this superior soil;Defeat, an outgrown anguish,Remembered as the mile
Our panting ankle barely gainedWhen night devoured the road;But we stood whispering in the house,And all we said was "Saved"!
I think just how my shape will riseWhen I shall be forgiven,Till hair and eyes and timid headAre out of sight, in heaven.
I think just how my lips will weighWith shapeless, quivering prayerThat you, so late, consider me,The sparrow of your care.
I mind me that of anguish sent,Some drifts were moved awayBefore my simple bosom broke, —And why not this, if they?
And so, until delirious borneI con that thing, — "forgiven," —Till with long fright and longer trustI drop my heart, unshriven!
After a hundred yearsNobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,Strangers strolled and spelledAt the lone orthographyOf the elder dead.
Winds of summer fieldsRecollect the way, —Instinct picking up the keyDropped by memory.
Lay this laurel on the oneToo intrinsic for renown.Laurel! veil your deathless tree, —Him you chasten, that is he!