Habeas Corpus

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.