Death

Fast this life of mine is dying,

Blind already and calm as death,

Snowflakes on my bosom lying

Scarcely heaving with my breath.

Love comes by and having known me

In a dream of fabled lands,

Gently stoops, and lays upon me

Mystic chrism of Holy hands.

He draws his smile across my folded

Eyelids as the swallow dips;

Breathes as finely as the cold does

Through the locking of my lips.

So when I look upward, being

Warmed and breathed on from above,

What sight can I have for seeing

Evermore but thy love?