Classic Poem

“W HAT is it to be dead?” O Life,
Close-held within my own,
What foul breath in the air is rife?
What voice malign, unknown,
Hath dared this whisper faint and dread,
“What is—what is it to be dead?”

Who told you that the song-bird died?
They had no right to say
This to my child—I know we cried
When Robin “went away;”
But this strange thing we never said,
That what we loved so could be dead.

Give me your hands, my only boy!
Health throbs in every vein;
Thou hast not dreamed of earth's alloy,
Nor stepped where guilt has lain;
O sweet young life! O baby breath!
What hast thou now to do with death?

I even framed for thy dear sake
Anew the childish prayer,
Lest, “If I die before I wake,”
Should rouse a thought or care.
Mother of Christ, was this a sin—
To watch where death might enter in?

Too late! The Angel of the Flame
Relentless cries: “Go hence!”
I think of Eden's sin and shame;
I gaze—on innocence!
And still the curse? Must I arise
And lead my own from Paradise!

I see the wide, the awful world
Loom up beyond the gate;
I see his pure soul tossed and whirled—
My child! I pray thee wait!
Ask me not what the Angel saith;
My soul this day hath tasted death!