Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/304

    Death, Death! ere yet decay,
    Call me not hence away,
Over the golden hours no shade is thrown;
    The poesy that dwells
    Deep in green woods and dells,
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.

    Yet not for this, O Death!
    Not for the vernal breath
Of winds that shake forth music from the trees;
    Not for the splendour given
    To night's dark regal heaven,
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.

    But for the happy love
    Whose light, where'er I rove,
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile,
    Shedding on branch and flower
    A rainbow-tinted shower
Of richer life—spare, spare me yet awhile.