BRIGHT LIFE

“Come now,” I said, “put off these webs of death,

Distract this leaden yearning of thine eyes

From lichened banks of peace, sad mysteries

Of dust fallen-in where passed the flitting breath:

Turn thy sick thoughts from him that slumbereth

In mouldered linen to the living skies,

The sun's bright-clouded principalities,

The salt deliciousness the sea-breeze hath!

“Lay thy warm hand on earth's cold clods and think

What exquisite greenness sprouts from these to grace

The moving fields of summer; on the brink

Of archèd waves the sea-horizon trace,

Whence wheels night's galaxy; and in silence sink

The pride in rapture of life's dwelling-place!”