After the Last Breath
There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;
None now need watch, speak low, and list, and
No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped
Does she require.
Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or
Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their
Whether we leave to-night or wait till day
Counts as the same.
The lettered vessels of medicaments
Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;
Each palliative its silly face presents
As useless gear.
And yet we feel that something savours well;
We note a numb relief withheld before;
Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell
Of Time no more.
We see by littles now the deft achievement
Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,
In view of which our momentary bereavement
Outshapes but small.