Mors Benigna
I DO not think of him as one who stalks, a helpless enemy,
Who some day will blot out the sun, and lay relentless hands on me;
Nay, rather do I think of him as one who in all kindness waits
At the road's end, when shadows dim, to draw me gently through his gates,
And lead me, like some kindly host that gives a long-expected guest
The comfort that he craves the most—the hospitality of rest.
So shall I think of him each day, while the road shortens mile by mile.
Guessing the word that he will say—almost familiar with his smile.
No foe with fury in his breath shall charge me from some ambushed place,
For I shall make a friend of Death long, long before I see his face.
Who some day will blot out the sun, and lay relentless hands on me;
Nay, rather do I think of him as one who in all kindness waits
At the road's end, when shadows dim, to draw me gently through his gates,
And lead me, like some kindly host that gives a long-expected guest
The comfort that he craves the most—the hospitality of rest.
So shall I think of him each day, while the road shortens mile by mile.
Guessing the word that he will say—almost familiar with his smile.
No foe with fury in his breath shall charge me from some ambushed place,
For I shall make a friend of Death long, long before I see his face.
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