Death

Calm death, God of crossed hands and passionless eyes, Thou God that never heedest gift nor prayer, Men blindly call thee cruel, unaware That everything is dearer since it dies. Worn by the chain of years, without surprise, The wise man welcomes thee, and leaves the glare Of noisy sunshine gladly, and his share He chose not in mad life and windy skies. Passions and dreams of love, the fever and fret Of toil, seem vain and petty when we gaze On the imperious Lords who have no breath: Atoms or worlds,—we call them lifeless, yet In thy unending peaceful day of days They are divine, all-comprehending Death.

Collection: 
English
George Pellew

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