Charles Wharton Stork: Death — Divination

Death — Divination

Charles Wharton Stork

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.