Death and Life

Death stroked my hair and whispered tenderly:

"Poor child, shall I redeem thee from thy pain,

Renew thy joy and issue thee again

Inclosed in some renascent ecstasy . . .

Some lilting bird or lotus-loving bee,

Or the diaphanous silver of the rain,

Th' alluring scent of the sirisha-plain,

The wild wind's voice, the white wave's melody?"

I said, "Thy gentle pity shames mine ear,

O Death, am I so purposeless a thing,

Shall my soul falter or my body fear

Its poignant hour of bitter suffering,

Or fail ere I achieve my destined deed

Of song or service for my country's need?"