Death.
Death is very beautiful,
Solemn, pure, and calm,
As in a shadowy cloister cool,
A lowly murmured psalm,
After some fierce battle-cry
In the windy glare hard by.
Nay, very terrible is death!
A cold, white shape of fear;
By it we talk with bated breath,
As if the thing could hear.
So like, and so unlike the face!
Ah! why borrow their dear grace?
Nay! thou cold mockery of life!
Death, take any other guise!
If they with living joy be rife,
Why looks their image on this wise?
Why make us deem they turn to this,
Who were the pulse of all our bliss?
Death is Satan's cruel jest,
His blaspheming parody!
