SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH: 7 by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

SHALL I decide it by a random shot?
Our happy hopes, so happy and so good,
Are not mere idle motions of the blood;
And when they seem most baseless, most are not.
A seed there must have been upon the spot
Where the flowers grow, without it ne'er they could
The confidence of growth least understood
Of some deep intuition was begot.
What if despair and hope alike be true?
The heart, 'tis manifest, is free to do
Whichever Nature and itself suggest,
And always 'tis a fact that we are here,
And with being here, doth palsy-giving fear
(Whoe'er can ask or hope) accord the best

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