Death
Death is a road our dearest friends have gone;Why with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?"Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,But turns in balm on the immortal side.Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; menWhose like we look not to behold again;Women that smiled away their loving breath;Soft is the travelling on the road to death!But guilt has passed it? men not fit to die?O, hush -- for He that made us all is by!Human we're all -- all men, all born of mothers;All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others;Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers!
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