Shadows (Howe)/The Death

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THE DEATH
I SHUDDER not when back I bendMy thought on life's first painful breath;Nor will I tremble for the end—    The last is only death.
To fear this death would shame my birth, Yet lowers a death I fear to die—Even before our inn, the earth,    Has place for me to lie.
It shall o'ertake me when the face Of spring or winter speaks no word,When winds and waters stir apace    And naught but sound is heard.
When walking in the silent wood I find no spirit breathing there,No presence in the solitude    Else spreading everywhere.
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It shall befall when, deaf to hear And dumb to speak what heart tells heart,Through one long winter of the year    I fare from friends apart.
When noble music, tale, or deed Warms not the blood to swifter flow,When numb alike to art and need    In dull content I grow:—
This were the dread and inmost fate, And burial were the end thereof,Should dearth of loving, known too late,    Lose me the way to love.

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