Shapeless and grim,
A Shadow dim
O'erhung the ways,
And darkened all my days.
And all who saw,
With bated breath,
Said, “It is Death!”
And I, in weakness
Slipping towards the Night,
In sore affright
Looked up. And lo!—
No Spectre grim,
But just a dim
Sweet face,
A sweet high mother-face,
A face like Christ's Own Mother's face,
Alight with tenderness
And grace.
“Thou art not Death!” I cried;—
For Life's supremest fantasy
Had never thus envisaged Death to me;—
“Thou art not Death, the End!”
In accents winning,
Came the answer,— “Friend,
There is no Death!
I am the Beginning,
— Not the End!”