POETRY: FELO DE SE,
If I were stone dead and buried under, Is there a Part of me would still wander, Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack, With no body to its back ?
When brain grew mealy, turned to dusk Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust Immortal Soul grow imbecile, Raving no Brain to think and feel ?
—Os grant it be as priests say, And Growth come on my death-day Suppose Growth came : would Certainty? Or would Mind still a quester be, Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,
And wander in a larger Doubt —Alas I If to Mind's petty stir Death, prove so poor a silencer ; Though veins when emptied a few hours Of this hot blood, might suckle flowers ; From spiritual flames that scorch me Never, never were I free !
Back, Death ! Till I call thee Bast come too soon !
RICHARD HUGHES.
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