THE OPEN ROAD
WE know not what it is, the whisper low
That each of us must hear.
We call it Death, but what is Death
Behind the pall and bier?
That each of us must hear.
We call it Death, but what is Death
Behind the pall and bier?
And what is that wide open grave
With all its weighting clods?
Is it a door from life's wide hall
That opens into God's?
With all its weighting clods?
Is it a door from life's wide hall
That opens into God's?
We cannot tell, but this we pray
Beside that close-shut door;
Death must be sweet, since those who die
Come back no more, no more.
Beside that close-shut door;
Death must be sweet, since those who die
Come back no more, no more.
Life may itself be but a sleep,
A mystery supreme,
And that low whisper at the end
May wake us from a dream.
A mystery supreme,
And that low whisper at the end
May wake us from a dream.
When my call comes I shall not need
The urge of biting goad,
Like pilgrim I will fare me forth—
Upon Death's Open Road.
The urge of biting goad,
Like pilgrim I will fare me forth—
Upon Death's Open Road.