Charles Wharton Stork: Death -- Divination
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Death -- Divination

1881-1971


Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood,
         That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;
         'T is like the web that some old perfume weaves
In a dim, lonely room where memories brood;
Like snow-chilled wine it steals into the blood,
         Spurring the pulse its coolness half reprieves;
         Tenderly quickening impulses it gives,
As April winds unsheathe an opening bud.

Death is like all sweet, sense-enfolding things,
         That lift us in a dream-delicious trance
         Beyond the flickering good and ill of chance;
But most is Death like Music's buoyant wings,
         That bear the soul, a willing Ganymede,
         Where joys on joys forevermore succeed.


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