| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1708. Experience |
| | | By Edith Wharton |
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I
LIKE Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand | |
| Upon the desert verge of death, and say: | |
| “What shall avail the woes of yesterday | |
| To buy to-morrow’s wisdom, in the land | |
| Whose currency is strange unto our hand? | 5 |
| In life’s small market they had served to pay | |
| Some late-found rapture, could we but delay | |
| Till Time hath matched our means to our demand.” | |
| But otherwise Fate wills it, for, behold, | |
| Our gathered strength of individual pain, | 10 |
| When Time’s long alchemy hath made it gold, | |
| Dies with us—hoarded all these years in vain, | |
| Since those that might be heir to it the mould | |
| Renew, and coin themselves new griefs again. | |
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II
O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate, | 15 |
| Rich with strange burden of the mingled years, | |
| Gains and renunciations, mirth and tears, | |
| And love’s oblivion, and remembering hate, | |
| Nor know we what compulsion laid such freight | |
| Upon our souls—and shall our hopes and fears | 20 |
| Buy nothing of thee, Death? Behold our wares, | |
| And sell us the one joy for which we wait. | |
| Had we lived longer, life had such for sale, | |
| With the last coin of sorrow purchased cheap, | |
| But now we stand before thy shadowy pale, | 25 |
| And all our longings lie within thy keep— | |
| Death, can it be the years shall naught avail? | |
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| “Not so,” Death answered, “they shall purchase sleep.” | |
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