Toward The Close

Time grows upon us until we exhaust Hope's possibilities, and then we die Who thus of life each make a holocaust Till all we have in nature is put by. No one survives himself, and none can so Reclaim the sentiment of youth that he Would like a fallen leaf re-budded grow On the bare bough of joy's mortality. Oh! in what charms may death himself reveal When the life-instinct turns at last to him For supreme succour, for the power to heal That sickness of our days when all grows dim! More fragrant then than roses, sweeter far, The airs that come from the old darkness are.