What a terrible night! Does the Night, I wonder-- The Night, with her black veil down to her feet Like an ordained nun, know what lies under That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet? The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling, Over the sad earth blindly go. Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling, Do they dream or know? Why, here in the room, not a week or over-- Tho’ it must be a week, not more than one-- (I cannot reckon of late or discover When one day is ended or one begun), But here in this room we were laughing lightly, And glad was the measure our two hearts beat; And the royal face that was smiling so brightly Lies under that sheet. I know not why--it is strange and fearful, But I am afraid of her, lying there; She who was always so gay and cheerful, Lying so still with that stony stare: She who was so like some grand sultana, Fond of color and glow and heat, To lie there clothed in that awful manner In a stark white sheet. She who was made out of summer blisses, Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair, To lie and stare at my fondest kisses-- God! no wonder it whitens my hair. Shriek, oh, wind! for the world is lonely; Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night’s feet! For all that I prized in life is only A shape and a sheet. HIS YOUTH. “Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad? You think I need to ask for heavenly grace? _I_ think _you_ are a fiend, who would be glad To see me struggle in death’s cold embrace. “But, man, you lie! for I am strong--in truth Stronger than I have been in years; and soon I shall feel young again as in my youth, My glorious youth--life’s one great priceless boon. “O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time, When proud and glad I laughed the hours away. Why, there’s no sacrifice (perhaps no crime) I’d pause at, could it make me young to-day. “But I’m not _old_! I grew--just ill, somehow; Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight. It was but sickness. I am better now, Oh, vastly better, ever since last night. “And I could weep warm floods of happy tears To think my strength is coming back at last, For I have dreamed of such an hour for years, As I lay thinking of my glorious past. “You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane I’d strike you to my feet, I would, in truth. How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain? How dare you say I have outlived my youth? “‘In heaven I may regain it?’ Oh, be still! I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave. Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-- O youth, youth, youth! it is my _youth_ I crave.