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Death
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!
