When life is hurried to untimely close
In the years of crystal eyes and burnish’d hair,
Dire are the thoughts of death;—eternal parting
From all the precious soul’s yet known delights,
All she had clung to here;—from youth and hope,
And the year’s blossom’d April;—bounding strength,
Which had out-leap’d the roes, when morning suns
Yellowed their forest-glade;—from reaper’s shout
And cheerful swarm of populous towns;—from Time,
Which tells of joys forepast, and promises
The dear return of seasons, and the bliss
Crowning a fruitful marriage;—from the stores
Of well-engrafted knowledge;—from all utterance,
Since, in the silent grave, no talk!—no music!
No gay surprise, by unexpected good,
Social, or individual!—no glad step
Of welcome friend, with more intenseness listen’d
Than warbled melody!—no father’s council!
No mother’s smile!—no lover’s whisper’d vow!—
There nothing breathes save the insatiate worm,
And nothing is but the drear altering corse,
Resolving silently to shapeless dust
In unpierc’d darkness and in blank oblivion.