To The Same

By Anne Whitney

By A Miser's Pensioner.

Once, spirit, as a little child, I went
Unto the burning mount, where thou didst stoop
To pluck me from low cares and sorrows up,
My inspiration, my abandonment.
Thou camest, because the messengers I sent
Were love and noble longings. I was given
To that self-losing which restores us heaven.
But now my sacrificial robe is rent,
And turns to ashes in the poisonous breath
Of this low life -- and fast contract mine eyes
To meet the glare of colored vanities. --
In passionless self-possession croucheth death;
Better than this were agony and strife --
Wake me to life, if need be, bleeding life!