WHAT IS DEATH?

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?