To John L. Sleeper

Why do you eling unto life, my brother? Why do you clhijj unto lifc, I say? Why do you weej) v.iien thé yóke and fetters of flesh from a duur onö drop away? You know this World is a house of sorrow, you know this woi-ld ia a house of sin ; That pain is the Dead sea fruit of pleasure and will be ever, as it hath beun. Why, tiien, eling mito life, whun over the blue, transpicudus rim afar Shineth the vall9 of tlie WondrousCity, where only blesinga and Uissca are? Why do you beat your hands with passion onri storm the sky witfa your pica and prayer Whenev. r passeá a stainless spirit forever out of your loep and c;:re? You say he goes to a glad, brave kinprdom, over a vague ;nd voj Where never a las . nandnevei ■ I : :1 bc, And w Wltll ( ■ The chrisni of Chnsl i ff I tl iirothf r, U I be lievi . . Beyond . a mj( ., -,;; r„ blossom over a i I would i ■■ ■.. . whent"7tTa l'rn.-nil of usiuy in ■ u;i-, I would rolje hún In festal raitaeut, aud J wöuld kiss hii-.i a Ln goodby. And, oh! when u:itn me can.n the hour- ítiM miracle hour that cor.ids to u!l- Never a cypress brcnch nor blo ra honid ■Hhrow its gloor.) on my gorguooM i'iall. At my funeral should be díinoing tid dsintj feasting at festal board, Should be singing and jests and laughter and gurgle of wine in he glasses pouri il. And jubilant bells should rock the steeples when I was borne to the gay, bnght pavo, And rattle of drums and tril! of trujirpbta blend in a glad thanksgivinc stave.