Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 81
LXXXIDEATHi
O thou slight word, most like to breath, and madeOf a few letters merely, what's in thee,Terror of flesh, the spirit's ecstasy,Mysterious, voiceless, shadow of a shade? They that fear nothing else, of thee afraid,Do call thee Sleep and Passing. Thou set'st freeInfinite shapes of all a man may be,Yet at thy nothingness he shrinks dismayed.If thou wert not, the Poets had been dumb,And Music silent. Yea, majestic ArtHad never sought and found her better partNor by the living eyes betrayed the heart.Great prophecy were an unmeaning hum,What-is no longer holding what's-to-come.
ii
I have wept for those who on this turning earthHad lived more years than I—who were to meThe aim and goal of my felicity,The dear reward of effort, crown of worth.And I have wept for babes who died at birth,Most deeply moved that I should never seeThe flower and fruit of all the days to be,A younger youth than mine, a merrier mirth. But never ere this day I felt the stingOf terror lest my burning tears should fallFor one who felt when first I felt the spring,Heard from the wood the self-same cuckoo call,Heard the same robin in the autumn sing,Was one with me in life—in love—in all.
iii
Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord,The flattering words of love are merely breath!O not in roses wreathe the shining sword,Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord, The bitter taste of death!
Wrap not in clouds of dread for me that hourWhen I must leave behind this house of clay,When the grass withers and the shrunken flower!Bid me, O Lord, in that most dreadful hour, Not fall, but fly away!