The Cradle Of Death

By Viren Gohil

In the midst of the world so fair,

In the middle of wood as dark as night,

Stood a cradle with shining snow-white sway.

A baby lay within,

A reindeer at her head, - A bear at her feet, -

And a turtle on her breast.

All around were winter's snow-like grave

The icy oaks and icy flowers.

Lo! a raven's shadow fell thereon,

And that cradle on the hearth was thrown.

With tears of grief and rage that fell

The daemon in the dark wood wept:

Till a raven's wing and an angelic hand

Smote his heart with pity, and the land

Grew dark with mirth for all his pain.

Death was never on life so fair

And youth on age so grim,

As now on maiden Death was there,

And Love with youth on doom.

A few brown leaves that clung to the sway,

A little green moss at her feet, -

An acorn here and an oak tree there, -

All these were grand enough. But grandest of all was she;

O'er the world's cold breast for a shroud she wore

The hush of snow in eternal bloom; On her face, the deeps of Summer shone: The stars hung and hope and love love and m mir this

Grewrew like flowers in the summer air.

Death was never on earth so sweet;

All who lay within that cradle there,

It Rested as if they slept again.

A gentleness on each large young brow.

The hands of those wild beasts were folded close,

and their eyes like sick men's were shut shuttered close:

They seemed to rest as peaceful as a child.

By Viren Gohil