Death
When thou, O Death, art come to be the old man’s guest
Who, bowed beneath the heavy weight of toil and years,
So longeth for thy rest,
Or to the weary mother, looking through her tears,
To the bright celestial shore
Where her loved have gone before,
Then, truly, thou art blest.
To them the ties that bound are broken, all,
And they will stretch glad hands of welcome unto thee
Who comes to break their thrall—
To slip the leash of weary life and set them free;
They, impatient, wait release
To pass the golden gates of Peace
And gladly list thy call.
But, in Love’s young home, where Life is one bright, pulsing sea
Of joy and hope, thy summons hath heart-breaking sound,
Like cruel Fate’s decree;
As tho’ alone, by stealth, she had thy gyves unbound,
When thou hadst to this Eden crept
And wrought, while guardian angels slept,
What Envy’s dream might be.
We feel the surging depth of Sorrow’s stifled cry,
Yet in thy presence, helpless, dumb with grief, we stand
And silent question—Why?—
Why budding life is frozen by thine icy hand,
Why yielded to thy devastating claim
Are all the loveliest of earth,—
E’en God’s sweetest, dearest gift of birth—
A mother-love,
Which is for life’s most holy joys, the precious name.
While cloud-depths veil in gloom the steely form of truth,
The heart, athrob with grief, still questions why:—
Ah, why Love’s brightly burning flame
Is ever smothered by thy breath,—
Its altar, dark and cold, whereon dead ashes lie;—
Oh! why are love, and hope, and youth,
All left within thy grasp, O, Death?