Fourteen sonnets and poems/Death
Who hath not learned in hours of faith,
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own.
LEAVES have their time to fall," a poet said,
"And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all—
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!"
Yet not alone superior and above,
As if he reigned the sole and only king,—
He is not that; the sweeping tides of love
From shore to shore do no such tidings bring.
Rather to each there comes in deeper sense,
The conscious presence of a king sublime,
Whose rule the years touch not, nor seasons sway,
But leaps the bounds of time;
Always with vigor, hope, and aspiration rife,
This king of kings forevermore is Life!