It is well, yea! best:
A lily hangs dead on its stalk, ah me!
A dream hangs dead on a life it blest.
Shall it flaunt its death where sad eyes may see
In the cold dank wind of our memory?
Shall we watch it rot like an empty nest?
Love's ghost, poor pitiful mockery--
Bury these shreds and behold it shall rest.
And shall life fail if one dream be sped?
For loss of one bloom shall the lily pass?
Nay, bury these deep round the roots, for so
In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow,
New 'Hail' is begot of the old 'Alas.'
See, here are our letters, so sweet--so dead.
DEATH IN A LONDON LODGING
'Yes, Sir, she's gone at last--'twas only five minutes ago
We heard her sigh from her corner,--she sat in the kitchen, you know:
We were all just busy on breakfast, John cleaning the boots, and I
Had just gone into the larder--but you could have heard that sigh
Right up in the garret, sir, for it seemed to pass one by
Like a puff of wind--may be 'twas her soul, who knows--
And we all looked up and ran to her--just in time to see her head
Was sinking down on her bosom and "she's gone at last," I said.
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