Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
that soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
gently and slowly washing life away.
And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared
Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He's young; he hated War; how should he die
when cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But Death replied: ' I choose him. ' So he went,
and there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.