Classic Poem

Sweet Death that hast the golden-coloured wings,
Thou art not very far from any one,—
And it may be before to-morrow's sun
New warmth to the glad laughing green earth brings,
Filling bright trees with many a throat that sings,
A calm abode of peace may be begun
For me, whereover soon shall climb and run
The robe that o'er the dead soft Nature flings.

And it may be that I shall be aware
Of some old music, some forgotten tale,
Some delicate old trembling in the air:
And it may be that I shall rise and sail
Majestic on the beats of pinions fair,
Clothed valiantly in an immortal mail.