#338

I know that He exists.
Somewhere—in Silence—
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.

‘Tis an instant’s play.
‘Tis a fond Ambush—
Just to make Bliss
Earn her own surprise!

But—should the play
Prove piercing earnest—
Should the glee—glaze—
In Death’s—stiff—stare—

Would not the fun
Look too expensive!
Would not the jest—
Have crawled too far!