Death is God’s messenger whom the poet will welcome heartily, offering him all his treasures. But he will reserve his soul, to offer it personally to his Maker.
DEATH, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home.
The night is dark and my heart is fearful – Yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door.
I will worship him with folded hands, and with folded hands, and with tears. I will worship him placing at his feet the treausre of my heart.
He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee.
