December
After SicknessI nearly died, I almost touched the door That swings between forever and no more； I think I heard the awful hinges grate, Hour after hour, while I did weary wait Death's coming； but alas1！ 'twas all in vain： The door half-opened and then closed again.
What were my thoughts？ I had but one regret —— That I was doomed2 to live and linger yet In this dark valley where the stream of tears Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. My lips spake not —— my eyes were dull and dim, But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn3 ——A triumph song of many chords and keys, Transcending4 language —— as the summer breeze, Which, through the forest mystically floats, Transcends5 the reach of mortal music's notes. A song of victory ——a chant of bliss6： Wedded7 to words, it might have been like this：
"Come, death！ but I am fearless, I shrink not from your frown； The eyes you close are tearless； Haste！ strike this frail8 form down. Come！ there is no dissembling In this last, solemn hour, But you'll find my heart untrembling Before your awful power. My lips grow pale and paler, My eyes are strangely dim, I wail9 not as a wailer10, I sing a victor's hymn. My limbs grow cold and colder, My room is all in gloom； Bold death！ —— but I am bolder
-Come！ lead me to my tomb！ 'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary11, 'Tis still, and lone12, and deep； Haste, death！ my eyes are weary, I want to fall asleep. `Strike quick！ Why dost thou tarry？ Of time why such a loss？ Dost fear the sign I carry？ 'Tis but a simple cross. Thou wilt13 not strike？ Then hear me： Come！ strike in any hour, My heart shall never fear thee Nor flinch14 before thy power. I'll meet thee ——time's dread15 lictor ——And my wasted lips shall sing： `Dread death！ I am the victor！ Strong death！ where is thy sting？'"
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