There was a day when death to me meant tears,
   And tearful takings-leave that had to be,
   And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,
And sudden disarrangement of the years.
But now I know that nothing interferes
   With the fixed forces when a tired man dies;
   That death is only answerings and replies,
The chiming of a bell which no one hears,
The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,
   The soft recessional of noise and coil,
   The coveted something time nor age can spoil;
I know it is a fabric finely spun
   Between the stars and dark; to seize and keep,
   Such glad romances as we read in sleep.