The neighbours gossiped idly at the door. Copernicus lay dying overhead. His little throng of friends, with startled eyes, Whispered together, in that dark house of dreams, From which by one dim crevice in the wall He used to watch the stars. "His book has come From Nuremberg at last; but who would dare To let him see it now?"-- "They have altered it! Though Rome approved in full, this preface, look, Declares that his discoveries are a dream!"-- "He has asked a thousand times if it has come; Could we tear out those pages?"-- "He'd suspect."-- "What shall be done, then?"-- "Hold it back awhile. That was the priest's voice in the room above. He may forget it. Those last sacraments May set his mind at rest, and bring him peace."-- Then, stealing quietly to that upper door, They opened it a little, and saw within The lean white deathbed of Copernicus Who made our world a world without an end. There, in that narrow room, they saw his face Grey, seamed with thought, lit by a single lamp; They saw those glorious eyes Closing, that once had looked beyond the spheres And seen our ancient firmaments dissolve Into a boundless night. Beside him knelt Two women, like bowed shadows. At his feet, An old physician watched him. At his head, The cowled Franciscan murmured, while the light Shone faintly on the chalice. All grew still. The fragrance of the wine was like faint flowers, The first breath of those far celestial fields.... Then, like a dying soldier, that must leave His last command to others, while the fight Is yet uncertain, and the victory far, Copernicus whispered, in a fevered dream, "Yes, it is Death. But you must hold him back, There, in the doorway, for a little while, Until I know the work is rightly done. Use all your weapons, doctor. I must live To see and touch one copy of my book. Have they not brought it yet? They promised me It should be here by nightfall. One of you go And hasten it. I can hold back Death till dawn. Have they not brought it yet?--from Nuremberg. Do not deceive me. I must know it safe, Printed and safe, for other men to use. I could die then. My use would be fulfilled. What has delayed them? Will not some one go And tell them that my strength is running out? Tell them that book would be an angel's hand In mine, an easier pillow for my head, A little lantern in the engulfing dark. You see, I hid its struggling light so long Under too small a bushel, and I fear It may go out forever. In the noon Of life's brief day, I could not see the need As now I see it, when the night shuts down. I was afraid, perhaps, it might confuse The lights that guide us for the souls of men.