Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857–1940)

THE WIND of death that softly blows

The last warm petal from the rose,

The last dry leaf from off the tree,

To-night has come to breathe on me.

There was a time I learned to hate

As weaker mortals learn to love;

The passion held me fixed as fate,

Burned in my veins early and late;

But now a wind falls from above,

The wind of death, that silently

Enshroudeth friend and enemy.

There was a time my soul was thrilled

By keen ambition’s whip and spur;

My master forced me where he willed,

And with his power my life was filled,

But now the old-time pulses stir

How faintly in the wind of death!

That bloweth lightly as a breath.

And once, but once, at Love’s dear feet,

I yielded strength, and life, and heart;

His look turned bitter into sweet,

His smile made all the world complete;

The wind blows loves like leaves apart,

The wind of death, that tenderly

Is blowing ’twixt my love and me.

O wind of death, that darkly blows

Each separate ship of human woes

Far out on a mysterious sea,

I turn, I turn my face to thee.