THOMAS HOOD

Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurl'd Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world !

In she plunged boldly No matter how coldly

The rough river ran Over the brink of it, Picture it think of it,

Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can !

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair !

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly !

Dreadfully staring

Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing

Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely,

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