O MOON, white spirit of a star long dead !
Not less the sea still swells beneath thy will,
Though cold the heats thy fostering sun hath fed,
Nor less thine orbit that thy pulse is still.
Shall senseless forces reign by perfect law?
Shall matter live, and thought alone be lost?
Nay ! from this truth a sequence rather draw
That love outlives the pang which death must cost,
Then yield the white hands to the secret clasp
Which holds them closer than our love can hold,
Nor hopeless shrink from that impassioned clasp
Which crumbles dearest charms to shapeless mould.
Lo ! freed from clay, beyond its sad control,
Ensphered by death circles the shining soul.
Frances M. Brown.