435 and 436

Be grieved no more at the grave injury

that e’er’s been done to you or done to me.

There’s balm enough in your kind company

to break the burden of all ills that be.

For you turn days of grief into delight,

and heartfelt warmth from ceaseless wakeful fright.

A suture is your semblance and your sight,

and wrong is made, by knowing you, to right.

I only hope the balm extends to you,

and does in reverse everything you do,

or that whatever faith you do it through

can, like the ones it serves, its saints renew.

If not, disciple I shall be of thee,

so that I do for you what you do me.

~~~

A little more, just one or two more words

before the day is done, before the end,

before no more my consciousness affords

the conscience nor coherence more to lend

me grammary, to see a sentence made,

or aid in any scribblings nor scrawls.

A few words, too, would certainly persuade

my mind to find some solace ere it falls

to other things life brings, to work or sleep,

or dreams wakeful, or seeming so to be;

or works, be they quite cheap or much yield reap,

a few more words before would steady me.

I ask, before I must, the page, decline,

is it too much to conquer one more line?