I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling
To grow immortal in my happy breast;
Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing—
The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit
That my quick heart is doomed to death in life
Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it,
I am abandoned to despairing strife.
To the lost life, alas, no more returning,
In this to come no semblance of the past—
Only to wait—hoping this ceasless yearning
May ere long end—and peace may come at last,
Omaha, Neb., 1857.
THE PASSING OF THE YEAR.
Worn and poor
The old year came to Eternity's door.
Once when his limbs were young and strong
From that shining portal came he forth,
Led by the sound of shout and song
To the festive halls of jubilant earth:
Now, his allotted cycle o'er,
He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.
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