George Pellew (1859–1892)

CALM Death, God of crossed hands and passionless eyes,

Thou God that never heedest gift nor prayer,

Men blindly call thee cruel, unaware

That everything is dearer since it dies.

Worn by the chain of years, without surprise,

The wise man welcomes thee, and leaves the glare

Of noisy sunshine gladly, and his share

He chose not in mad life and windy skies.

Passions and dreams of love, the fever and fret

Of toil, seem vain and petty when we gaze

On the imperious Lords who have no breath:

Atoms or worlds—we call them lifeless, yet

In thy unending peaceful day of days

They are divine, all-comprehending Death.