Life

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

20 June 1743 to 9 March 1825 (~82)

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Perhaps ’t will cost a sigh, a tear;
As all that then remains of me.
Life! I know not what thou art,
’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Where bend unseen thy trackless course,
Choose thine own time;
No clod so valueless shall be,
Bid me Good morning.
Then steal away, give little warning,
Say not Good night, but in some brighter clime
But this I know, when thou art fled,
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
I own to me’s a secret yet.
O whither, whither dost thou fly,
Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,
Ah tell where I must seek this compound I?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
But know that thou and I must part;
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
And in this strange divorce,
O say what art thou, when no more thou ’rt thee?
From whence thy essence came,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
Life! we’ve been long together,
From matter’s base encumbering weed?
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
And when, or how, or where we met,
Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour,
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