Body and Soul

The poor Soul speaketh to its Clay :
I cannot leave thee thus ; I'll stay
With thee, with thee in death will sink
And black Annihilation drink.
Thou still hast been my second I,
Embracing me so lovingly ;
A satin feast-robe round my form
Doubled with ermine soft and warm.
Woe's me ! I dare not face the fact —
Quite disembodied, quite abstract.
To loiter as a blessed Naught
Above there in the realm of Thought,
Through Heavenly halls immense and frigid,
Where the Immortals dumb and rigid
Yawn to me as they clatter by
With leaden clogs so wearily.
Oh, it is horrible ! Oh, stay,
Stay with me, thou beloved Clay !

The Body to the poor Soul said :
Oh, murmur not, be comforted !
We all should quietly endure
The wounds of Fate, which none can cure.
I was the lamp's wick, and to dust
Consume ; but thou, the Spirit, must
Be saved with care, and lifted far
To shine in Heaven, a little star
Of purest light. I am but cinder,
Mere matter, rubbish, rotten tinder.
Losing the shape we took at birth,
Mouldering again to earth in earth.
Now, fare thee well, and grieve no more !
Perchance life is not such a bore
In Heaven, as you expect up there.
If you should meet the old Great Bear
(Not Meyer-Bear *) i' the starry climes,
Greet him from me a thousand times !