The Burial of My Past Self by Voltairine DeCleyre

Poor Heart, so weary with thy bitter grief!
So thou art dead at last, silent and chill!
The longed-for death-dart came to thy relief,
And there thou liest, Heart, forever still.

Dead eyes, pain-pressed beneath their black- fringed pall!
Dead cheeks, dark- furrowed with so many tears!
So thou art passed far, far beyond recall,
And all thy hopes are past, and all thy fears.

Thy lips are closed at length in the long peace!
Pale lips! so long they have thy woe repressed,
They seem even now when life has run its lease
All dumbly pitiful in their mournful rest.

And now I lay thee in thy silent tomb,
Printing thy brow with one last solemn kiss;
Laying upon thee one fair lily bloom,
A symbol of thy rest; oh, rest is bliss.

No, Heart, I would not call thee back again;
No, no; too much of suffering has thou known;
But yet, but yet, it was not all in vain-
Thy unseen tears, thy solitary moan!

For out of sorrow joy comes uppermost;
Where breaks the thunder soon the sky smiles blue;
A better love replaces what is lost,
And phantom sunlight pales before the true!

The seed must burst before the germ unfolds,
The stars must fade before the morning wakes;
Down in her depths the mine the diamond holds;
A new heart pulses when the old heart breaks.

And now, Humanity, I turn to you;
I consecrate my service to the world!
Perish the old love, welcome to the new-
Broad as the space-aisles where the stars are whirled!


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