SHADOW OF DEATH.
147
Till from my spirit's fevered eye,
A hunted thing, I seemed to fly
Through the dark woods that underlie
Yon mountain-range of blue.
Deep in those woods I found a vale
No sunlight visiteth,
Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale;
Where never comes the breath
Of summer breeze—there in mine ear,
Even as I lingered half in fear,
I heard a whisper, cold and clear,
'This is the gate of Death.
'O bitter is it to abide
In weariness alway;
At dawn to sigh for eventide,
At eventide for day.
