Thou say'st, my friend, 'twould strike thee with dismay
To be assured that life would not end here;
Since utter death is less a thing to fear
In thy esteem than life in clearer day:
For life, continuous life, thou wouldst not pray;
And even reunion with the loved and near
Is not to thee a prospect that could cheer,
Or shed a glory on thy earthward way:---
O power of thought perverse and morbid mood,
Conspiring thus to numb and blind the heart!
The universe gives back what we impart,---
As we elect, gives poison or pure food:
Mock---silence---the soul's whisper,---and Despair
Becomes to man than Hope itself more fair!