She stood in the open door, She blessed them faint and low: “I must go,” she said, “must go Away from the light of the sun,
Away from you, every one; Must see your eyes no more,— Your eyes, that love me so. “I should not shudder thus,
Nor weep, nor be afraid. Nor cling to you so dismayed, Could I only pierce with ray eyes Where the dark, dark shadow lies;
Where something hideous Is hiding, perhaps,” she said. Then slowly she went from them, Went down the staircase grim,
With trembling heart and limb; Her footfalls echoed In the silence vast and dead, Like the notes of a requiem,
Not sung, but uttered. For a little way and a black She groped as grope the blind, Then a sudden radiance shined,
And a vision her eyelids burned; All joyfully she turned, For a moment turned she back, And smiled at those behind.
There in the shadows drear An angel sat serene, Of grave and tender mien, With whitest roses crowned;
A scythe lay on the ground, As reaping-time were near,— A burnished scythe and a keen. She did not start or pale
As the angel rose and laid His hand on hers, nor said A word, hut beckoned on; For a glorious meaning shone
On the lips that told no tale, And she followed him, unafraid. Her friends wept for a space; Then one said: “Be content;
Surely some good is meant For her, our Beautiful,— Some glorious good and full. Did you not see her face,
Her dear smile, as she went?”
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