It seemeth such a little way to me <br /> Across to that strange country – the Beyond; <br />And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be <br /> The home of those whom I am so fond, <br />They make it seem familiar and most dear, <br />As journeying friends bring distant regions near. <br /> <br />So close it lies, that when my sight is clear <br /> I think I almost see the gleaming strand. <br />I know I feel those who have gone from here <br /> Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand. <br />I often think, but for our veiled eyes, <br />We should find heaven right round about us lies. <br /> <br />I cannot make it seem a day to dread, <br /> When from this dear earth I shall journey out <br />To that still dear country of the dead, <br /> And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about. <br />I love this world, yet shall I love to go <br />And meet the friends who wait for me, I know. <br /> <br />I never stand above a bier and see <br /> The seal of death set on some well-loved face <br />But that I think ‘One more to welcome me, <br /> When I shall cross the intervening space <br />Between this land and that one “over there”; <br />One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.’ <br /> <br />And so for me there is no sting to death, <br /> And so the grave has lost its victory. <br />It is but crossing – with a bated breath, <br /> And white, set face – a little strip of sea, <br />To find the loved ones waiting on the shore, <br />More beautiful, more precious than before.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beyond/
