DEATH

by: Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

T is not death, that sometime in a sigh

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,

And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite

Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;

It is not death to know this--but to know

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go

So duly and so oft--and when the grass waves

Over the pass'd-away, there may be then

No resurrection in the minds of men.

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