From The Detroit Times, July 28, 1915. By Mary Mapes Dodge.
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
Nor why we’re left to wonder still, nor why we do not know.
But this we know: our loved and dead, if they should come this day—
Should come and ask us, “What is life?” not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
Yet, oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!
Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought:
“So death is sweet to us, beloved; though we may show you naught;
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death.
Ye can not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath.”
The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,
So all who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known. But nearing God, what has the soul to dread?
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.