The vast moon settles to the west: Two men beside a nameless tomb, And one would sit thereon to rest,— Ay, rest below, if there were room.
What is this rest of death, sweet friend? What is the rising up,— and where? I say, death is a lengthened prayer, A longer night, a larger end.
Hear you the lesson I once learned: I died; I sailed a million miles Through dreamful, flowery, restful isles,— She was not there, and I returned.
I say the shores of death and sleep Are one; that when we, wearied, come To Lethe's waters, and lie dumb, ‘ Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep.
Yea, we lie dead for need of rest And so the soul drifts out and o'er The vast still waters to the shore Beyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest:
It sails straight on, forgetting pain, Past isles of peace, to perfect rest,— Now were it best abide, or best Return and take up life again?
And that is all of death there is, Believe me. If you find your love In that far land, then like the dove Abide, and turn not back to this.
But if you find your love not there; Or if your feet feel sure, and you Have still allotted work to do,— Why, then return to toil and care.
Death is no mystery.‘ Tis plain If death be mystery, then sleep Is mystery thrice strangely deep,— For oh this coming back again!
Austerest ferryman of souls! I see the gleam of solid shores, I hear thy steady stroke of oars Above the wildest wave that rolls.
O Charon, keep thy sombre ships! We come, with neither myrrh nor balm, Nor silver piece in open palm, But lone white silence on our lips.
Cookies on Poetry Cove