Or e'er the Silver Cord Be Broken

I think that when I come to that last gate,
Whereo'er there stands the ancient reaper. Death,
I shall go down into the void beneath
Without bemoaning then my poor estate.

Though ceases then all sorrow- and all mirth
Within the shadow where all breath is done,
I shall not go as those whose faith is none,
I, who found worship for the things of earth—

That shall continue still when I am gone
Beyond the water still the snows will lift,
And to the east the rose-clad morn will drift;
The sun will shine on earth as once he shone.

Then thought will die with me for ever where
he crowned clay patch lies on the Kelburn hill.
And where the river is white silver still
By Haywards and by Melling, where the air,

A golden mantle, lies on that blue plain,
And where the kowhai lines the shallow lake
Beyond Wairongomai; I would not wake
And ache to tread their memoried paths again.

Then come, O Death, for silence, not for woe.
I would not wake beyond your deep to mourn,
For love is hopeless, save where it was born.
Heap dirt upon my sleep and leave me low.

—R.F.F.