Consumption

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shineToo brightly to shine long; another SpringShall deck her for men's eyes - but not for thine -Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,And the vexed ore no mineral of power;And they who love thee wait in anxious griefTill the slow plague shall bring the final hour.Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should comeGently, to one of gentle mould like thee,As light winds wandering through groves of bloomDetach the delicate blossom from the tree.Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.