RELEASED. 

 Oh, joy of the dying! At last thou art mine. And leaping to meet thee, Impatient to greet thee, A rapid and rapturous, sensitive, fine Gayety steals through my pulses to-day, Daring and doubting like pleasure Forbidden, or Winter looking at May. 

 Oh, sorrow of living! Make way for the thrill Of the soul that is starting— Onlooking—departing Across the threshold of clay. Bend, bow to the will Of the soul that is up and away! 

 

 

 THE ROOM'S WIDTH. 

 I think if I should cross the room, Far as fear; Should stand beside you like a thought— Touch you, Dear! 

Far as fear;

Touch you, Dear!

 Like a fancy. To your sad heart It would seem That my vision passed and prayed you, Or my dream. 

It would seem

Or my dream.

 Then you would look with lonely eyes— Lift your head— And you would stir, and sigh, and say— "She is dead." 

Lift your head—

"She is dead."

 Baffled by death and love, I lean Through the gloom. O Lord of life! am I forbid To cross the room? 

Through the gloom.

To cross the room?

 

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