Beside the Dead

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie
    With hands that folded are from every task;
 Sealed with the seal of the great mystery,
    The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask.
 The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
    The weariness of patience, and of pain,
    And the eyes closed to open not again
 On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
 It must be sweet to slumber and forget;
    To have the poor tired heart so still at last;
 Done with all yearning, done with all regret,
    Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past;
 Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet—
 It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

 (Ina Coolbrith, nata Josephine Donna Smith, prima poetessa laureata d'America; Nauvoo, 10 marzo 1841 – Oakland, 29 febbraio 1928)