Classic Poem

I AM not afraid of dying;
When the midnight winds are sighing
I could beckon them to waft me, waft me to the upper skies;
And when clear the moon has risen
From her cloudy, eastern prison,
I could sink with her o'er hills of dawn, nor wish again to rise.

Earth with charms I cannot number
Woos me to a placid slumber,
Dreamless, deep, and all unbroken 'neath the summer turf so green;
Roses everywhere are blowing;
Will a better time for going
To the land of sleep and silence come life's morn and eve between?

I am not afraid of dying;
In such holy quiet lying,
There would come no weary waking with a weight upon my breast;
Were the mornings gray or golden,
By a sweet enchantment holden
I should slumber till the angels bore me up to heavenly rest.

Mine 's a short and simple story;
O! thou tender Lord of Glory!
Take me gently in thy bosom when I'm weary of the way!
Only let me see Thee clearer,
Only whisper, “Child, come nearer,”—
So my living shall be blessèd as my welcome dying day.