How strange, how passing strange, when we awake And lift our faces to the light To know that you are lying shut away Within the night. How strange, how passing strange, when we lie down To sleep, to know that you are quite Alone beneath the moon, the stars, the little leaves, Within the night. How strange, how passing strange to know—our eyes Will gladden at the fine sweet sight Of you no more, for now your face is hid Within the night. Strange, strange indeed, these things to us appear And yet we know they must be right; And though your body sleeps, your soul has passed Beyond the night. Ah! friend, it must be sweet to slip from out The tears, the pain, the losing fight Below, and rest, just rest eternally Beyond the night. And sweet it must be too, to know the kiss Of Peace, of Peace, the pure, the white And step beside her hand in hand quite close Beyond the night. This poem is in the public domain. |
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