Classic Poem

The sense of death is nothing; — for it brings
A perfect vision of things seen already.
I recognise with eyesight cleansed and steady
A gold-clad chorus of familiar things,
And feel the fluttering of your sweet wings
And touching of your hands, — and your glad breath
Makes a rose-garden of the vale of death,
And heaven it is for your glad voice that sings.

God, this is nothing new. I passed, before,
The gate of death, — and felt upon my face
The subtle airs of heaven, and the grace
And golden glamour of the open door
That leads to the eternal unbound shore, —
When hand in hand of mine She came to place.