Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

Death—Divination

DEATH is like moonlight in a lofty wood,

That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;

’T is like the web that some old perfume weaves

In a dim, lonely room where memories brood;

Like snow-chilled wine it steals into the blood,

Spurring the pulse its coolness half reprieves;

Tenderly quickening impulses it gives,

As April winds unsheathe an opening bud.

Death is like all sweet, sense-enfolding things,

That lift us in a dream-delicious trance

Beyond the flickering good and ill of chance;

But most is Death like Music’s buoyant wings,

That bear the soul, a willing Ganymede,

Where joys on joys forevermore succeed.