A Hymn Of Praise To Death Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

Beautiful Death! I sing thee as one has sung
Whose song like mine from the depths of his being was wrung;
I sing thee as I have seen thee behind the cloud
Which folds thee from hourly sight as a corpse in its shroud;
I sing thee, veiled one, because of thy face, unknown
To many, the beauty benignant to me has been shown.
Angel of change and of progress, Angel of peace,
Who bringest God's order in time for the soul's release;
Shadowy presence that turning Love's day to night
Gives us a glimpse of the starry infinite
Angel of Hope and Revealing, God's minister,
Silent and secret in service that knows not to err;
Though from their side thou hast taken the life of their life,
Folded in sleep, there have been who have rested from strife,
Yielded their all at the last to thy tenderer care,
Sought not a word or a sign of farewell for their share;
Followed thee, gentle one, gone with thee into the night,
Followed thee, holy one, come with thee into the light,
Thinking it may be by tardy submission to earn
Grace of sweet Death for themselves in a kindly return;
Take when thou wilt from my singing lips the breath,
I laud thee, because I love thee, beautiful Death!

Merciful Death! by thy lovers perceived as birth,
Dread is thy shape as it silently travels the earth;
Palled in the cloud that is adverse to mortal sight,
Radiant on high though it sweep in the central light.
Death! be thou good to the hearts thou hast all but slain,
Lead them together with Love o'er the cloud-darkened plain,
Set them, though trembling and strange for awhile on the mount,
Give them a glimpse of their love at its infinite fount,
Show it them, pure of self-pity and earthly alloy,
One in its intimate essence for ever with joy!

Love, that has laboured and suffered, the mother mature
Of all that is highest in hope and has claim to endure;
Love, that has quickened in darkness and grown to its height,
Leapt into fulness of life in the womb of the night;
Love in Ascendant, so ruling our life as a star
Clear in the still depths of sorrow,—of near or of far;
Knowing no more in that light than of doubt or of fear,
Finding its home in the infinite now and here,—
How had it been with thee, Love, had'st thou known but of birth,
Gladdened the morning of life and made fruitful the earth?
How had it been if thy proud eyes had ever been bent
Low on the furrows of life in a grovelling content?
How had it been with the soul that of Death had been left,
Lapsed from God's whole in a part,—of His presence bereft?

Born into Time as thou wert in such lowly degree,
Love, thou art one with the Highest; I sing not of thee!
I sing not of Love but of Death, the strong nurse of the soul.
Love, when too young as at first, its own life to control,—
Young for the depths of its being as yet to be stirred,—
Strengthened itself in the earth only; thine then the word,
Thine then the signal that taughtest young Love to aspire,
Thine then the voice that awakened Love's dormant desire,
Thine the soft breast we reclined on when done was the day,
Thine the deep rest that we found from our work or our play,
Thine the strong hand, O dread Death! that upbearing our dead,
Lifted'st the veil o'er the face of the infinite spread,
Letting the gleam of God's glory, the voice of His praise,
Flash out to plenish the darkness and silence of days,
Void of the voice and the vision, and dull with amaze,
At the heart that could beat when the heart of that other was still!
Death, with sealed orders, who worketh God's ultimate will,
Blinded with weeping, it may be, and bending beneath
The weight of thy largess, we praise thee still, bountiful Death!

Vain is the promise of Life in the ear of our youth,
Thou, holding office of Him of whose essence is truth,
Art alone the unfailing, consummate one; never thy word
Has been broken to man, or thy coming unduly deferred;
Though in impatience of sorrow we weary and wait,
None from their lost ones are cut off for ever in state;
What our belovëds are now, that we surely shall be,
None that draw breath upon earth are forgotten of Thee.
Vain as the promise of Life is our mortal endeavour,
Thine and Thine only, the pledge that betrayeth us never!

True that Thou comest as creditor, claiming in tears
All the usurious sum of Love's grievous arrears,
All the dire cost of the joy of the blessed spent years;
Yet when destrained of our treasure, left starving and bare,
Thou in the house of our sorrow and blankest despair
Lifting the curtain, hast shown us a golden stair,
Signed to us, holding our dead in Thy tender embrace,
Suffered us, close as we clung to Thee, found us a place
High on some mount of prevision to breathe for a space;
Led us and left on Thy way to a heaven unknown,
Entered the gate through which light travelled down from the throne,
Entered, and left us,—to find our way earthward alone.

Would it were given me, helpful of others' essay,
Faintly to picture the glory, to hint at the way
Hither and thither; I only may witness to this:
The path has been trodden; a stairway and glory there is.
Aid us, O Father, for none may now serve us but Thee;—
Open the eyes of the spirit that craveth to see,
Hasten the birth of the being that yearneth to BE!
Nothing is sure to the heart as its pleasure or pain;
Nothing is true to the thought as its loss or its gain;
Firmest of all things the facts that can conquer the might
Of imperious sorrow, and show it transfigured in light.
This hast Thou done for us, won for us, while we have breath,
This we up-raise Thee for, praise Thee for, Angel of death!