Last Words

 Dead! all's done with!
-- R.
 Browning.



These blossoms that I bring,
This song that here I sing,
These tears that now I shed,
I give unto the dead.


There is no more to be done,
Nothing beneath the sun,
All the long ages through,
Nothing--by me for you.


The tale is told to the end;
This, ev'n, I may not know--
If we were friend and friend,
If we were foe and foe.


All's done with utterly,
All's done with.
 Death to me
Was ever Death indeed;
To me no kindly creed

Consolatory was given.

You were of earth, not Heaven.
 .
 .

This dreary day, things seem
Vain shadows in a dream,

Or some strange, pictured show;
And mine own tears that flow,
My hidden tears that fall,
The vainest of them all.

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