Last Words

Dead! all's done with! -- R. Browning. These blossoms that I bring, This song that here I sing, These tears that now I shed, I give unto the dead. There is no more to be done, Nothing beneath the sun, All the long ages through, Nothing--by me for you. The tale is told to the end; This, ev'n, I may not know-- If we were friend and friend, If we were foe and foe. All's done with utterly, All's done with. Death to me Was ever Death indeed; To me no kindly creed Consolatory was given. You were of earth, not Heaven. . . This dreary day, things seem Vain shadows in a dream, Or some strange, pictured show; And mine own tears that flow, My hidden tears that fall, The vainest of them all.