Not with a cry, nor with the stifled sound

Of one who 'neath Death's billows of Despair

Thrusts up blue lips toward the outer air,

Searching if any breathing may be found;

Who plucks with groping finger-tips to rend

The water's edges for a fraction's space,

Through which he may push up his haggard face

For one last look—the last before the end.

As a broad river, having journeyed far

Constrained by banks—too often fretfully—

'Neath a full moon goes rocking out to sea

Sombred by night, cheered by a rising star,

So may my days move murmurously to rest,

Throbbed through with Death who knew Life's

sorrows best.