Death

Death is a road our dearest friends have gone;

Why with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?"

Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,

But turns in balm on the immortal side.

Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; men

Whose like we look not to behold again;

Women that smiled away their loving breath;

Soft is the travelling on the road to death!

But guilt has passed it? men not fit to die?

O, hush — for He that made us all is by!

Human we're all — all men, all born of mothers;

All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others;

Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers!