The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 55, May, 1862 by Various
page 60 of 277 (21%)
page 60 of 277 (21%)
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The traveller must not wait.
Men say not by what connivance He slid from his weight of woe, Whether sickness or weak contrivance, But we know him glad to go. On, and on, and ever on! What next? Nor let the priest be wanting With his hollow eyes of prayer, While the sexton wrenches, panting, The stone from the dismal stair. But call not the friends who left him, When Fortune and Pleasure fled; Mortality hath not bereft him, That they should confront him, dead. On, and on, and ever on! What next? Bid my mother be ready: We are coming home to-night: Let my chamber be still and shady, With the softened nuptial light. We have travelled so gayly, madly, No shadow hath crossed our way; Yet we come back like children, gladly, Joy-spent with our holiday. On, and on, and ever on! What next? |
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