Death

A poem by George MacDonald

Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
A fresher birth brings every new year in.
Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
--Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:--
Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
And set upon his day night's starry crown!
Death, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!--
A woman-angel! see--in long white gown!
The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed.

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