Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood,
   That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;
   'T is like the web that some old perfume weaves
In a dim, lonely room where memories brood;
Like snow-chilled wine it steals into the blood,
   Spurring the pulse its coolness half reprieves;
   Tenderly quickening impulses it gives,
As April winds unsheathe an opening bud.

Death is like all sweet, sense-enfolding things,
   That lift us in a dream-delicious trance
   Beyond the flickering good and ill of chance;
But most is Death like Music's buoyant wings,
   That bear the soul, a willing Ganymede,
   Where joys on joys forevermore succeed.