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AFTER THE PLAY
39
Not that which you suppose—the end of strife,—
Not dissolution—and not loss—but life!
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I think she felt no anguish, knew no fear,
So mercifully swift the flames drew near;
For, even as she smiled, narcotic death
Enveloped her, and stifled her sweet breath;
And the fire passed her by and left her there,
Like to a sleeping child, untouched and fair.
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All—all that life withheld—is mine at last!
With love, with God,—believe me,—there's no past.
The future waits—it calls—I must not stay!
The night is over,—look! the dawn—of Day!
