“But Lord,” she said, “My
shoulders still are strong
I have been used to bear the
load so long,
And see, the hill is passed
and smooth the road…”
“Yet,” said the stranger,
“yield me now thy load.”
Gently he took it from her,
and she stood
Straight-limbed and lithe in
new-found maidenhood.
“My Lord,” she said, “The
land is very fair.”
Smiling he answered, “Was it
not so there?”
“There?” in her voice a wondering question lay,
“Was I not always here then,
as today?”
He turned to her with
strange, deep eyes a flame
“Knowest thou not this
kingdom, nor thy name?”
“Nay,” she replied, “but this
I understand—
That thou are Lord of Life in
this fair land.”
“Yes, child, he murmured,
scarce above his breath,
“Lord of this land—but men
have named me death.”
“Those we love truly never die
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath—
A ring and flowers, types of life and death—
Are laid upon their graves.
Well blessed is she who has a dear one dead
A friend she has whose face will never change,
A dear communion that will not grow strange.
The anchor of a life is death.”
“There is no death, nor change, nor any ending.
Only a journey, and so many go
That we who stay at length discern the blending
Of the two roads, two breaths, two lives, and so
Come to the high and quiet knowledge that the dead
Are but ourselves, made beautiful instead.”