Waiting for Death. January 23
Death, beautiful, wise, kind Death, when will you come and tell me what I want to know? I courted you once and many a time, brave old Death, only to give rest to the weary. That was a coward’s wish—and so you would not come.... I was not worthy of you. And now I will not hunt you any more, old Death. Do you bide your time, and I mine.... Only when you come, give me not rest but work. Give work to the idle, freedom to the chained, sight to the blind!
Two Years Ago, chap. xv. 1856.