The Dying

 

He fumbles in the clothes for want of thought,
And we, in life, health, fearing death, supply
His dazed brain the power for clearer work-
Imagination to his dying eye.

 

Locks, bolts, nor bars make coward's heart secure:
When I at night see stars shine overhead,
And in the morning dew upon the green,
Ah! Then I tremble to lie cold and dead-

 

That I, whom life showed nothing to make laugh,
Shall grin at last and know no reason why;
And have no smell when Summer brings her flowers,
And have no ear for bird close where I lie.