Sleep ... Oh how I loathe those little slices of death ....
Sleep ... Oh how I loathe those little slices of death ....
Life and death, and love and hate,
Homes made happy or desolate,
Hearts made sad or gay!
There is a reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
There is no death What seems so is transition This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.
Life is real Life is earnest And death is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.
The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories