Fannie Stearns Gifford

A WARM gold shining world.

A whispering, laughing world.

You would not think that Death stands there in the sun,

Leaning against the posts of the red-brick house,

Leaning across the bright brass knocker and knob and bell.

A warm gold shining world,

And crocuses up in the lawn.

If Death were not so thin,

Like air or water or gas,

He would darken the smooth white door.

He would stain the little square gleaming window-lights dull gray.

But he is so clear and thin

That they glitter and sparkle and live …

She was young, and her cheeks were red.

She was young, and loved laughing and gossip.

She wore coral-color, and sapphire, and violet;

And hats with feathers that knew how to trick you to staring;

And shoes high-heeled, quick, dainty.

She did not think much. She was gay.

No one will say, “She is dead.”

The crocuses out in the lawn—

White and purple and orange candles,

Windless and warm and safe—

Burn the brown soil with beauty …

No one will say, “She is dead.”

Yet Death stands there in the sun.