The Death-Bed

You are not wrong, who deem
That my days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm is at the root.

But I am in the autumn woods,
And the tangled ivy goes;
Among the trees I cleave the wood,
And I am a soldier’s ghost.

Mary! to you I trust this
With my dying breath;
You are the light — I close my eyes
Upon the dust of death!

Some say it matters not to die
If one is bred for Heaven;
And they err, for I too know
The place to which I am driven.

• Thomas Hood