Not as a tyrant cruel, hard and cold,
A monarch unrelenting and severe,
Think I of Death, whom all the many fear
And walk in daily terror of; I hold
The thought of one who doth the weary fold
With gentle arms, and lays them on the bier
Of earth, at rest and peace, as fall the sere
And withered autumn leaves. But from of old
Hath not the tree new leaves put forth? So may
The soul fresh forms assume another day;
Thus testifies the miracle of spring,
Wherewith the leafless brumal world is rife.
Who can the bare earth's time of blossoming
Behold, and say Death is the end of Life?