Looking on a page where stood
Graven of old on old-world wood
Death, and by the grave's edge grim,
Pale, the young man facing him,
Asked my well-beloved of me
Once what strange thing; this might be,
Gaunt and great of limb.
Death, I told him: and, surprise
Deepening more his wildwood eyes
( Like some sweet fleet thing's whose breath
Speaks all spring though nought it saith ),
Up he turned his rosebright face
Glorious with its seven years’ grace,
Asking — What is death?