This Then Is Death

THEY said it was a little thing to die,
Dust unto parched dust given;
A sleep with no more waking, but to lie
Numb to all hell or heaven.

They said death was a swift, possessive thing
That sealed the eyes forever;
Never to know the spring’s white blossoming,
Lover by quiet lover.

With such bold things to say, they did not know
When death comes in sleep’s likeness
It asks for more than human strength to go
Alone into the darkness.