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.