The Blest

The vision came, all grey and cold,

And cast his shadow on my bed-

But I could live a thousand years,

And never wish that I were dead.

'You do not know, said Death, to me,

'How many men have called me "Blest";

The millions that have squeezed my hand

In gratitude for peace and rest;

When they are old, and no one wants them,

They lie their heads upon my breast.'

And he looked so gentle and kind,

And his voice came so soft to my ear,

That I gave him a cherry to eat,

And the dew on its skin was a tear.