Death

A poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt

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; men
Whose 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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