At Last, O Death

AT last, O death!
Not with the sick-room fever and weary heart
And slow subsidence of diminished breath —
But strong and free
With the great tumult of the living sea.
Behold, I have loved.
And though I wept for the long sundering,
I did not fear thee, Death, nor then nor now.
I girded up my loins and sought my kind,
And did a man's work in a world of men,
And looked upon my work and called it good.
Now come, then, in the shape I love the best.
In the salt, sturdy wrestling of the sea,
I give thee welcome.