Death

My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? Why all this tedious pomp of writ? Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow For half a century bit by bit.

In faith thou knowest more to-day Than I do, where it can be found! This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, To which I am now chained and bound,

Has not of kith or kin a trace To the good body once I bore; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: Didst ever see that face before?

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart For timorous ones that bid thee wait.

Do quickly all thou hast to do, Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; I shall be free when thou art through; I grudge thee nought that thou must take!

Stay! I have lied; I grudge thee one, Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,-- Two members which have faithful done My will and bidding in the past.

I grudge thee this right hand of mine; I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; They never gave me coward sign, Nor played me once the traitor's part.

I see now why in olden days Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:

The symbol, sign and instrument Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent Their all of love, their all of life.

O feeble, mighty human hand! O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned With such sublime, transcendent art!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, Its veins so pallid and so slow --

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; I shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is -- take hand and heart; There must be somewhere work to do.