DEATH stroked my hair and whispered tenderly: "Poor child, shall I redeem thee from thy pain, Renew thy joy and issue thee again Inclosed in some renascent ecstasy ... Some lilting bird or lotus-loving bee, Or the diaphanous silver of the rain, Th' alluring scent of the sirisha-plain, The wild wind's voice, the white wave's melody?" I said, "Thy gentle pity shames mine ear, O Death, am I so purposeless a thing, Shall my soul falter or my body fear Its poignant hour of bitter suffering, Or fail ere I achieve my destined deed Of song or service for my country's need?" |