XCIV

When on the splendor of thy shining head
Death lays his hand, I feel that thou art born,
Like my poor self, to destinies forlorn
Whose issues darken toward the silent dead.
Ah! then I rave against the hand that shed
This boding darkness on the fairest morn,
And made all beauty half deserve our scorn,
Because 'tis transient as the rose's red.
Perhaps I wrong thee. My imperfect eye
Sees not beyond the circle of my birth,
Confounding thee with things of lower worth.
Thou art a stranger here, whose longings fly
Towards Death to lead thee from our alien earth,
And guide thee homeward to thy native sky.