Poems (Curwen)/Death

by Annie Isabel Curwen

For works with similar titles, see Death.

Death.

He calls them softly, day by day,
  The young, the old;
He lays His hand on tresses grey,
  On curls of gold.
His shadow falls upon the way,
  And hearts grow cold.

He calls the maid, the wife new-wed,
  The father dear,
The beggar and the crowned head,
  Peasant and peer.
And some rejoice to hear His tread,
  Some shrink with fear.

He takes the child's warm dimpled hand,
  Softly in His,
And whispers of a better land,
  Fairer than this.
The child, though slow to understand,
  Smiles at His kiss.

He sees the young, guileless and fair,
  And sadly smiles.
He sees the future; many a snare;
  Knows Satan's wiles.
So leads them to a region where
  No sin defiles.

He sees the weary mother droop,
  Day after day;
Some brother 'neath his great load stoop,
  Faint by the way.
He calls, and home the weary troop,
  To rest for aye.

Answer, O Death! art thou a foe,
  That men should fear?
"I am the Guide, dost thou not know,
  From here to There.
The darkest hour, that doth foreshow,
  The dawn is near."