THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD.
Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just.
Shining nowhere but in the dark,
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could men outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair field, or grove, he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
Henry Vaughan.