Comfort for the Bereaved: A Poem

A sonnet.

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It pains my heart to think that you might weep
When I have gone to Death. Love, dry your eyes;
Should mothers sob to rock a babe to sleep,
Or flinch from soothing song to calm its cries?
Death’s but eternal slumber, welcome rest
From life’s rough passions, sharp joys, and black fears.
It is a gift, and so I think it best
To welcome it with calm, and not with tears.

My life has been a star — brief, clear, and bright —
And now comes Sun to singe my dawn-dimmed rays.
I have burned clear throughout my given night,
And I am well content to face my days
    Of silent, unseen slumber. Do not sigh —
    Recall, my love, that even stars must die.

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