{random poetry #127}

Time to Come

O, Death! a black and pierceless pall
Hangs round thee, and the future state;
No eye may see, no mind may grasp
That mystery of fate.

This brain, which now alternate throbs
With swelling hope and gloomy fear;
This heart, with all the changing hues,
That mortal passions bear—

This curious frame of human mould,
Where unrequited cravings play,
This brain, and heart, and wondrous form
Must all alike decay.

The leaping blood will stop its flow;
The hoarse death-struggle pass; the cheek
Lay bloomless, and the liquid tongue
Will then forget to speak.

The grave will take me; earth will close
O’er cold dull limbs and ashy face;
But where, O, Nature, where shall be
The soul’s abiding place?

Will it e’en live? For though its light
Must shine till from the body torn;
Then, when the oil of life is spent,
Still shall the taper burn?

O, powerless is this struggling brain
To rend the mighty mystery;
In dark, uncertain awe it waits

The common doom, to die.

Whitman, W. (1819-1892)