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.