Wallie the Imp tells me mortality is all in the definition.
Was there a picture or a line
(Though I was truly infantine—
Infinity and all its space
Were limitless and yet, were mine)—
Was there a word then, or a tune
That drew me up (alas, too soon!)
And promised with a gentle grace
My soul, from this poor body hewn
Should learn the paces of the moon;
What was it then that skipped my heart—
I realized my waning part—
But would not tame my dream, my haste
To share my love for LIFE, in art.
We have a gift—it is our eyes—
The secret light of Paradise—
I hoped to leave this standing race
As one who made the young (not wise
If wisdom cannot be a dream
A hope, a whisper, like the glow
Of moonlight on the world below)—
But rather on their fancy, gleam
Not thoughts of present, soon the past,
But of a future that will last—
A future that survives the grave
Whose peace arrives too oft, too fast.
I do not speak as one in dread;
I say, O Mortal, I am dead.