Ina Donna Coolbrith (1841–1928)

WITH hands that folded are from every task,

It must be sweet, O thou my dead, to lie

Sealed with the seal of the great mystery,—

The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask;

The life-long struggle ended; ended quite

The weariness of patience and of pain;

And the eyes closed to open not again

On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.

It must be sweet to slumber and forget;

To have the poor tired heart so still at last:

Done with all yearning, done with all regret;

Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all for ever past:

Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet—

It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!