I have dreamed of Death:--what will it be to die Not in a dream, but in the literal truth With all Death's adjuncts ghastly and uncouth, The pang that is the last and the last sigh? Too dulled, it may be, for a last good-bye, Too comfortless for any one to soothe, A helpless charmless spectacle of ruth Through long last hours, so long while yet they fly. So long to those who hopeless in their fear Watch the slow breath and look for what they dread: While I supine, with ears that cease to hear, With eyes that glaze, with heart-pulse running down, (Alas! no saint rejoicing on her bed), May miss the goal at last, may miss a crown. 28. In life our absent friend is far away: But death may bring our friend exceeding near, Show him familiar faces long so dear And lead him back in reach of words we say. He only cannot utter yea or nay In any voice accustomed to our ear; He only cannot make his face appear And turn the sun back on our shadowed day. The dead may be around us, dear and dead; The unforgotten dearest dead may be Watching us, with unslumbering eyes and heart, Brimful of words which cannot yet be said, Brimful of knowledge they may not impart, Brimful of love for you and love for me. "FOR THINE OWN SAKE, O MY GOD." Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance, Wearied of self, I turn, my God, to Thee; To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence Hangs mine eternity: I turn to Thee, I plead Thyself with Thee,-- Be pitiful to me. Wearied I loathe myself, I loathe my sinning, My stains, my festering sores, my misery: Thou the Beginning, Thou ere my beginning Didst see and didst foresee Me miserable, me sinful, ruined me,-- I plead Thyself with Thee. I plead Thyself with Thee Who art my Maker, Regard Thy handiwork that cries to Thee; I plead Thyself with Thee Who wast partaker Of mine infirmity, Love made Thee what Thou art, the love of me,-- I plead Thyself with Thee. UNTIL THE DAY BREAK. When will the day bring its pleasure? When will the night bring its rest? Reaper and gleaner and thresher Peer toward the east and the west:-- The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best. Meteors flash forth and expire, Northern lights kindle and pale; These are the days of desire, Of eyes looking upward that fail; Vanishing days as a finishing tale. Bows down the crop in its glory Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold; The millet is ripened and hoary, The wheat ears are ripened to gold:-- Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?