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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509938" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Worldly Death-Bed</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hush! speak in accents soft and low,<br>And treat with careful stealth<br>Thro’ that rich curtained room which tells<br>Of luxury and wealth;<br>Men of high science and of skill<br>Stand there with saddened brow,<br>Exchanging some low whispered words—<br>What can their art do now? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Follow their gaze to yonder couch<br>Where moans in fitful pain<br>The mistress of this splendid home,<br>With aching heart and brain.<br>The fever burning in her veins<br>Tinges with carmine bright<br>That sunken cheek—alas! she needs<br>No borrowed bloom to-night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The masses of her raven hair<br>Fall down on either side<br>In tangled richness—it has been<br>Through life her care and pride;<br>And those small perfect hands on which<br>Her gaze complacent fell,<br>Now, clenched within her pillow’s lace,<br>Of anguish only tell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sad was her restless, fev’rish sleep,<br>More sad her waking still,<br>As with wild start she looks around<br>Her chamber darkened—still;<br>Its silence and the mournful looks<br>Of those who stand apart,<br>Some awful fear seem to suggest<br>To that poor worldly heart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Doctor, I’m better, am I not?”<br>She gasps with failing breath—<br>Alas! the answer sternly tells<br>That she is “ill to death.”<br>“What! dying!” and her eyes gleam forth<br>A flashing, fearful ray,<br>“I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth<br>To pass so soon away? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“No, no, it must not, cannot be,<br>Surely your skill can save—<br>Can stand between me and the gloom,<br>The horrors, of the grave!”<br>Breathless she listens, but no word<br>Breaks that dull pause of grief,—<br>Her pitying listeners turn away,<br>They cannot give relief </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tossing aloft, in fierce despair,<br>Her arms, with frenzied cry,<br>She gasps forth, “Save me—help, O help!<br>I must not, will not die.”<br>But One can grant that wild appeal,<br>Can stay her failing breath—<br>Of Him she never thought in life<br>Nor thinks she now in death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without one prayer, one contrite tear,<br>For past faults to atone—<br>For wasted talents, misspent life,<br>She’s gone before God’s throne!<br>Prying that wilful, wayward heart<br>That leaned on gods of clay,<br>For calmer, holier death than hers<br>With solemn heart we pray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rosanna+Eleanor+Leprohon">Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509938" data-title="A Worldly Death-Bed de Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon" data-description="Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
And treat with careful stealth
Thro’ that rich curtained room which tells
Of luxury and wealth;
Men of high science and of skill
Stand there with saddened brow,
Exchanging some low whispered words—
What can..."></div>
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