The Rubicon

(Written in 1908)

One other bitter drop to drink,

And then—no more!

One little pause upon the brink

And then—go o’er!

One sigh, and then the vibrant morn

Of perfect day

When my free spirit, newly born,

Will soar away!

One pang and I shall rend the thrall

Where grief abides,

And generous Death will show me all

That he now hides;

And lucid in that second birth,

I shall discern

What all the sages of the earth

Have died to learn.

One motion and the stream is crost,

So dark, so deep!

And I shall triumph, or be lost

In endless sleep,

Then onward!  Whatsoe’er my fate,

I shall not care!

Nor Sin, nor Sorrow, Love nor Hate

Can touch me there.[1]

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[1] This poem, untitled and unattributed in the clipping is “The Rubicon” by William Winter. Winter was born on July 15, 1836 in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Winter graduated from Harvard Law School in 1857.

Winter wore many literary hats during his long, illustrious career: theater critic, biographer, poet, essayist, among them. He is known for his Romantic-style poetry, and for his long career as an editor and writer for some of New York City's great papers. He was a tour de force in the original Bohemian scene of Greenwich Village, going on to become one of the most influential men of letters of the last half of the 19th century and the pre-eminent drama critic and biographer of the times. In 1860 Winter married Scottish poet and novelist Elizabeth Campbell, raising their five children in Staten Island, New York.

Winter went on to a stellar writing and editorial career at some of New York City's most influential papers, working as a dramatic and literary critic for the Albion and Harper’s Weekly, as well as Horace Greeley’s Tribune for more than 40 years. His piercing wit and brilliant writing made him the leading stage historian and theater critic of the 19th century.

In the 1880s he began publishing biographies of thespians like the Jefferson family and Edwin Booth. Winter opposed the modernist theater of playwrights like Ibsen, and maintained that drama should be a moral force. 

Winter died in New Brighton, Staten Island on June 30, 1917 after a bout of angina pectoris. He was buried at Silver Mount Cemetery (Wikipedia).