Unafraid
Sleep lifts the flower-soul with gentle hand,
And breathes upon it till the petals close
Softly and drowsily; and, faint, there grows
A melody from some far shining strand.
The waking vision's holden to, till, fanned
By vagrant winds from distant ports, it blows
The singing lips of dreams into the rose.
The white Night leans to kiss the nodding land.
Thus, in a kindred way, will Brother Death
At the appointed hour let fall his breath
Upon my soul, which such kind dreamlessness
Of pillowing, after Life's storm and stress.
I shall lie unafraid, my petals furled,
To bloom anew within some fairer world.
—Exchange