Oh, horrors! is it — is it true
What I have read?— if I but knew!
O, God, tell me where can I fly,
Not to be found when I shall die!
They say dead waifs are oft by night
Robbed of a decent burial's right;
That fiends the friendless bodies bear
To crowds of waiting students, where
Men tear them up for men to see.
O, God, sweet God, do pity me!
And I will humbly pray to men:
If this should come within the ken
Of one who lives a true-loved life,
Of one who sister has, or wife;
One who loves women for the best
That is in them, whose lips have pressed
Pure, genuine lips, whom women trust,
Whose heart is free from loathsome lust;
One whom I would have loved if he
Brother or husband were to me —
I ask you — nay, I do command
With that imperiousness you so
Like from a white and shapely hand —
I order you — but no, no, no;
I am past that — I humbly pray
That you will see that I unmarred
Have Christian burial. Guard, oh guard,
You men with manly hearts and souls,
My poor dead body from the ghouls!
I strove alway to keep it pure
As the soul in me; it has been
Type of the thoughts that lived within,
The white slave of what shall endure,
My spirit's loved though humble mate;
Let none its white limbs desecrate!
Weaker — yet weaker —‘ tis to die
This sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye,
World that I was too weak for —