A Question

If I had been in love with Life, had Death
Seemed any ghastlier, more full of dread,
Or I shrank more from thought of being dead,
Sightless and still, and in my lips no breath,
Night all about me, and the dust beneath?
Not so, I think, for then I should have said:
"I have been glad, though now I make my bed
Where dead folk lie, and never a word one saith."

Harder seems this, — to die and leave the sun.
And carry hence each unfulfilled desire.
I heard one cry, " Come where the feast spread;"
But when I came the festival was done;
Somewhile I shivered by the extinguished fire.
And now retrace my steps uncomforted.