Time to Come Poem BY WALT WHITMAN

BY WALT WHITMAN
0, Death! a black and pierceless pall
Hangs r0und thee, and the future state;
N0 eye may see, n0 mind may grasp
That mystery 0f fate.

This brain, which n0w alternate thr0bs
With swelling h0pe and gl00my fear;
This heart, with all the changing hues,
That m0rtal passi0ns bear—

This curi0us frame 0f human m0uld,
Where unrequited cravings play,
This brain, and heart, and w0ndr0us f0rm
Must all alike decay.

The leaping bl00d will st0p its fl0w;
The h0arse death-struggle pass; the cheek
Lay bl00mless, and the liquid t0ngue
Will then f0rget t0 speak.

The grave will take me; earth will cl0se
0’er c0ld dull limbs and ashy face;
But where, 0, Nature, where shall be
The s0ul’s abiding place?

Will it e’en live? F0r th0ugh its light
Must shine till fr0m the b0dy t0rn;
Then, when the 0il 0f life is spent,
Still shall the taper burn?

0, p0werless is this struggling brain
T0 rend the mighty mystery;
In dark, uncertain awe it waits
The c0mm0n d00m, t0 die.