When time has bound these limbs of mine with bands,
And hushed mine ears, and silvered all my hair,
May sorrow come not, nor a vain despair
Trouble my soul that meekly girdled stands.
As silent rivers into silent lakes,
Through hush of reeds that not a murmur breaks,
Wind, mindful of the poppies whence they came,
So may my life, and calmly burn away,
As ceases in a lamp at break of day
The flagrant remnant of memorial flame.
Euthanasia!--Yet Mr. Gosse, with all his accomplishment, is still a
young man. His youthful confidence in the perpetuity of poetry, of
the poetical interests in life, creed-less as he may otherwise seem
to be, is, we think, a token, though certainly an unconscious token,
of the spontaneous originality of his muse. For a writer of his
peculiar philosophic tenets, at all events, the world itself, in
truth, must seem irretrievably old or even decadent.
Old, decadent, indeed, it would seem with Mr. Gosse to be also
returning to the thoughts, the fears, the consolations, of its youth
in Greece, in Italy:--
[116]
Nor seems it strange indeed
To hold the happy creed
That all fair things that bloom and die
Have conscious life as well as I.
Then let me joy to be
Alive with bird and tree,
And have no haughtier aim than this,
To be a partner in their bliss.
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