Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, / Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, / Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, / Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes? / How many a tranquil soul has passed away, / Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim, / To the eternal splendor of the day; / And many a troubled heart still calls for him. / Spirits too tender for the battle here / Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms, / And children, shuddering at a word so drear, / Have smiling passed away into his arms. / He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain, / Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart: / Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain, / And bid the shadows of earth's grief depart. / He will give back what neither time, nor might, / Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore, / (Dear as to long-blind eyes recovered sight,) / He will give back those who are gone before. / O, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes / Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see / Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, / And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
"The Angel of Death" — Adelaide Anne Procter
