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!