Mary E. Fletcher

‘IN love with easeful death?’ Not I,

Too well I love this friendly sky,

The sunrise and the sunset hour,

The winter storm and summer shower,

The hand-clasp and the glad surprise

Of welcome in a good friend’s eyes.

In truth, I have a secret dread

Of lying down among the dead,

The poor, white dead bereft of will,

Who lie so cold, so strangely still,

The while we break our hearts and pray

For one fond word of yesterday.

I’d go as children do, at night,

When they must leave the warmth and light,

With lagging step and looks behind

At toys beloved and faces kind,

Only half sure of God to keep

Strange terrors from them while they sleep.