Passing so silently away from earth;
If that were all—if death itself were death—
But after death comes life, more true than this.
I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,
A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:
Its song was full of sweetness and of love:
When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,
And found its grave among a bank of flowers—
Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?
I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,