At the Last
Will the day ever come, I wonder,
When I shall be glad to know
That my hands will be folded under
The next white fall of the snow?
To know that when next the clover
Wooeth the wandering bee,
Its crimson tide will drift over
All that is left of me?
Will I ever be tired of living,
And be glad to go to my rest,
With a cool and fragrant lily
Asleep on my silent breast?
Will my eyes grow weary of seeing,
As the hours pass, one by one,
Till I long for the hush and the darkness
As I never longed for the sun?
God knoweth! Sometime, it may be,
I shall smile to hear you say:
“Dear heart! she will not waken
At the dawn of another day!”
And sometime, love, it may be,
I shall whisper under my breath:
“The happiest hour of my life, dear,
Is this—the hour of my death!”