Life.

Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze,     I feel thee bounding in my veins,     I see thee in these stretching trees,     These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains.     This stream of odours flowing by     From clover-field and clumps of pine,     This music, thrilling all the sky,     From all the morning birds, are thine.     Thou fill'st with joy this little one,     That leaps and shouts beside me here,     Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run     Through the dark woods like frighted deer.     Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes     Insect and bird, and flower and tree,     From the low trodden dust, and makes     Their daily gladness, pass from me,     Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground     These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain,     And this fair world of sight and sound     Seem fading into night again?     The things, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all     Strive upwards toward the broad bright sky,     Upward and outward, and they fall     Back to earth's bosom when they die.     All that have borne the touch of death,     All that shall live, lie mingled there,     Beneath that veil of bloom and breath,     That living zone 'twixt earth and air.     There lies my chamber dark and still,     The atoms trampled by my feet,     There wait, to take the place I fill     In the sweet air and sunshine sweet.     Well, I have had my turn, have been     Raised from the darkness of the clod,     And for a glorious moment seen     The brightness of the skirts of God;     And knew the light within my breast,     Though wavering oftentimes and dim,     The power, the will, that never rest,     And cannot die, were all from him.     Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve     To see me taken from thy love,     Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve,     And weep, and scatter flowers above.     Thy little heart will soon be healed,     And being shall be bliss, till thou     To younger forms of life must yield     The place thou fill'st with beauty now.     When we descend to dust again,     Where will the final dwelling be     Of Thought and all its memories then,     My love for thee, and thine for me?