AFTER SICKNESS.
I 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 alas! 'twas all in vain: The door half-opened and then closed again.
What were my thoughts? I had but one regret — That I was doomed 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 hymn — A triumph song of many chords and keys, Transcending language — as the Summer breeze, Which, through the forest mystically floats, Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes. A song of victory — a chant of bliss: Wedded to words, it might have been like this: