Life in Death

I HEARD him in the autumn winds,
I felt him in the cadent star,
And in the shattered mirror of the wave,
That still in death a rapture finds,
I caught his image faint and far;
And musing in the twilight on the grave,
I heard his footsteps stealing by,
Where the long churchyard grasses sigh.
But never might I see his face,
Though everywhere I found Death's hand,
And his large language all things living spake ;
And ever heavy with the grace
Of bygone things through all the land
The song of birds or distant church-bells brake.
" I will arise and seek his face,"
I said, "ere wrapped in his embrace."

" For Death is king of life," I cried;
"Beauty is but his pomp and state;
His kiss is on the apple's crimson cheek,
And with the grape his feet are dyed,
Treading at noon the purple vat ;
And flowers, more radiant hued, more quickly seek
His face betraying in disguise,
Their young blooms are but autumn dyes! "
Then I arose ere dawn, and found
A faded lily. "Lo, 'tis He!
I will surprise him in his golden bed,
Where, muffled close from light and sound,
He sleeps the day up." Noiselessly
I drew the faded curtains from his head,
And, peeping, found, not Death below,
But fairy life set all arow.

A chrysalis next I chanced upon :
“Death in this dusty shroud has dwelt ! "
But stooping saw a winged Thing, sun-kist,
Crusted with jewels Life had won
From Death's dim dust ; and as I knelt,
Some passion shook the jewels into mist,
Some ecstasy of coming flight,
And lo, he passed in morning light.
And as I paced, still questioning,
Behold, a dead bird at my feet ;
The faded violets of his filmy eyes,
And tender loosened throat to sing
No more to us his nocturns sweet,
Told me that death at length before me lies.
But gazing, quick I turned in fear,
Not Death, but teeming Life was there.

Then haply Death keeps house within?
And with the scalpel of keen thought
I traced the chemic travail of the brain,
The throb and pulse of Life's machine,
And mystic force with force still caught
In the embrace that maketh one of twain ;
And all the beating, swift and slow,
Of Life's vibrations to and fro.
And still I found the downward swing,
Decay, but ere I cried, " Lo, here ! "
The upward stroke rang out glad life and breath
And still dead winters changed with spring,
And graves the new birth's cradle were ;
And still I grasped the flying skirts of Death,
And still he turned, and, beaming fair,
The radiant face of Life was there.