My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? Why all this tedious pomp of writ? Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow For half a century, bit by bit. In faith thou knowest more to-day Than I do, where it can be found! This shriveled lump of suffering clay, To which I now am chained and bound, Has not of kith or kin a trace To the good body once I bore; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: Didst ever see that face before? Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart For timorous ones that bid thee wait Do quickly all thou hast to do, Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; I shall be free when thou art through; I grudge thee naught that thou must take! Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one, Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,— Two members which have faithful done My will and bidding in the past. I grudge thee this right hand of mine; I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; They never gave me coward sign, Nor played me once a traitor’s part. I see now why in olden days Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies’ hands at wild crossways, Shrined leaders’ hearts in costly state: The symbol, sign, and instrument Of each soul’s purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent Their all of love, their all of life. O feeble, mighty human hand! O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned With such sublime, transcendent art! Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine Poor little hand, so feeble now; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, Its veins so pallid and so slow— (Unfinished here.) Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: I shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is—take hand and heart: There must be somewhere work to do. Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.
Habeas Corpus
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