Paul Hamilton Hayne (Пол Гамильтон Хейн)

At Last

In youth, when blood was warm and fancy high,
I mocked at death. How many a quaint conceit
I wove about his veiled head and feet,
Vaunting aloud, Why need we dread to die?
But now, enthralled by deep solemnity,
Death's pale phantasmal shade I darkly greet:
Ghostlike it haunts the hearth, it haunts the street,
Or drearier makes drear midnight's mystery.
Ah, soul-perplexing vision! oft I deem
That antique myth is true which pictured death
A masked and hideous form all shrank to see;
But at the last slow ebb of mortal breath,
Death, his mask melting like a nightmare dream,
Smiled,—heaven's high-priest of Immortality!

1. Welcome to Winter
2. Queen Galena, Or The Sultan Betrayed
3. A Lyrical Picture
4. The Soul-Conflict
5. Now, While the Rear-Guard of the Flying Year

Abram Ryan (Абрам Райан) At Last ("Into a temple vast and dim")

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1809

Последние стихотворения

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