Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: <br />A fresher birth brings every new year in. <br />Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. <br />See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! <br />My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, <br />Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. <br />-Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! <br />Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:- <br />Behind me comes a shining one indeed; <br />Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, <br />And set upon his day night's starry crown! <br /> <br />Death <br />, say'st thou? Nay-thine be no caitiff creed!- <br />A woman-angel! see-in long white gown! <br />The mother of our youth!-she maketh speed.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-520/
