What is Death?

Looking on a page where stood

Graven of old on old-world wood

Death, and by the grave's edge grim,

Pale, the young man facing him,

Asked my well-beloved of me

Once what strange thing; this might be,

Gaunt and great of limb.

Death, I told him: and, surprise

Deepening more his wildwood eyes

(Like some sweet fleet thing's whose breath

Speaks all spring though nought it saith),

Up he turned his rosebright face

Glorious with its seven years' grace,

Asking -- What is death?