Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TERRORS OF DEATH; WRITTEN ON THE WALLS OF A CARTHUSIAN MONASTERY, by THEOPHILE GAUTIER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TERRORS OF DEATH; WRITTEN ON THE WALLS OF A CARTHUSIAN MONASTERY, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou who dost pace this cloistered hall
Last Line: Of him whose life hath been too sweet!
Alternate Author Name(s): Theo, Le Bon
Subject(s): Death; Future Life; Life; Dead, The; Retribution; Eternity; After Life


Thou who dost pace this cloistered hall,
Reflect on death! Thou canst not know
If e'er again thy form shall throw
Its changeful shadow on the wall.

It may be that these very stones
Which thou, regardless of the dead,
To-day with sandall'd foot dost tread,
Shall press to-morrow on thy bones.

Life, like a frail, thin plank, conceals
Eternity's abyss profound:
A gulf yawns suddenly around,
The panic-stricken sinner reels:

The earth recedes on which he trod,
What finds he now? Heaven blue and calm,
Or Hell's red blaze? The victor's palm,
Or torment? Lucifer or God?

Oh! ponder well the thought of dread!
And let thy prescient spirit view
Thyself, as with cadaverous hue,
Thou liest stretched upon a bed,

Betwixt two sheets. whereof the one
Shall form the shroud to wrap thy clay,
Sad raiment all must wear some day,
Albeit coveted by none!

By fever parched or numbed by cold,
Writhing like green wood in the fire,
While inarticulate words expire
Upon thy lips—thyself behold!

Thou pantest, like a stag at bay;
Death rattles hoarsely in thy throat,
Foreboding with sepulchral note
The soul's desertion of the clay;

Dark-vestured priests in silence steal
Within thy room, with oil and pyx,
And bearing each a crucifix,
Around thy lowly pallet kneel.

Behold too praying for thy soul
Thy wife and children, loved so well!
The ringer of the passing-bell
Hangs on the rope thy knell to toll.

The sexton hollows with his spade
A narrow bed thy bones to hold,
And soon the fresh brown crumbling mould
Shall fill the pit where thou art laid.

Thy flesh so delicate and fair,
Shall serve the charnel-worms to feed,
And brightly tint each flower and weed
Upon thy grave with verdure rare.

Fit then, thy soul that hour to meet
When thou shalt draw thy latest breath!
My brother! bitter is the death
Of him whose life hath been too sweet!





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