A speaker who once believed deeply in joy now addresses Death after a devastating loss. She imagines her life as a lush branch on Time’s tree, once stripped bare by sorrow and guilt but always revived by a hidden tide of renewal. Hope had easily laughed away her sadness, and Spring returned with tenfold beauty, so bright that grief seemed powerless. Then Death struck, and this time the wound is final. The leaves, once full of sap and silver dew, droop beyond recovery; no evening air can revive them, and morning sunlight only mocks her anguish. Confidence in renewal shatters—Time, she declares, will never blossom for her again. In a painful twist, she demands Death strike the branch down completely, so its decay might feed the eternal root from which it sprang. The mood moves from fierce grief to a bitter, sacrificial surrender, refusing to let the loss be meaningless.
Death — Summary
Death! that struck when I was most confiding In my certain faith of joy to be - Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing From the fresh root of Eternity!
Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly, Full of sap, and full of silver dew; Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly; Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom; Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride; But, within its parent's kindly bosom, Flowed for ever Life's restoring-tide.
Little mourned I for the parted gladness, For the vacant nest and silent song - Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness; Whispering, " Winter will not linger long!"
And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, Lavished glory on that second May!
High it rose - no winged grief could sweep it; Sin was scared to distance with its shine; Love, and its own life, had power to keep it From all wrong - from every blight but thine!
Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish; Evening's gentle air may still restore - No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish - Time, for me, must never blossom more!
Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish Where that perished sapling used to be; Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish That from which it sprung - Eternity.