It Was On A Night Of Fog I Died Poem by Sophia White

It was on a night of fog I died,
And I remember just one thing:
How the mists were white.
In wraithlike beauty, they sat
Upon the roads and the fields,
Coiling around trees and corners,
All around me.
I am not even certain they were mists,
But suspect, instead, the ghosts
Of many from the past who
Died within a pallid shroud,
Within a lovely, earthbound cloud,
Just like me.
It comes back clearer to me now,
And I recall their folded hands
Which slowly rose to greet me
As the ghosts drew near to meet me.
I remember how the air went stiff
As they took my hands in theirs
To welcome me.