He fears to die who knows not how to live,
For Death is friendly, shaping to an end
The woeful accidents which fate doth blend
With high success, to fairer fortunes give;
Who for this close would ask alternative
Unto a further lease of earth to lend
His soul, and clip the wings that would ascend
To God, the source of life infinitive?
Look at the parable of things—the sun
Must some day out—the fairest blossoms die—
Sweet-throated songsters cease their minstrelsy—
And Nature endeth all she hath begun.
So fear ye not to meet the great release,
For direst storms dissolve in lasting peace.