Of Death I try to think like this— The Well in which they lay us Is but the Likeness of the Brook That menaced not to slay us, But to invite by that Dismay Which is the Zest of sweetness To the same Flower Hesperian, Decoying but to greet us—
I do remember when a Child With bolder Playmates straying To where a Brook that seemed a Sea Withheld us by its roaring From just the Purple Flower beyond Until constrained to clutch it If Doom itself were the result, The boldest leaped, and clutched it—
