We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all.
ATTRIBUTION:
Mary Mapes Dodge (1831–1905), U.S. poet. The Two Mysteries (l. 1–4). . .
World’s Great Religious Poetry, The. Caroline Miles Hill, ed. (1954) The Macmillan Company.
