RELEASED.

Oh, joy of the dying!

At last thou art mine.

And leaping to meet thee,

Impatient to greet thee,

A rapid and rapturous, sensitive, fine

Gayety steals through my pulses to-day,

Daring and doubting like pleasure

Forbidden, or Winter looking at May.

Oh, sorrow of living!

Make way for the thrill

Of the soul that is starting —

Onlooking — departing

Across the threshold of clay.

Bend, bow to the will

Of the soul that is up and away!