Slipping towards the Night,
In sore affright
Looked up. And lo!--
No Spectre grim,
But just a dim
Sweet face,
A sweet high mother-face,
A face like Christ's Own Mother's face,
Alight with tenderness
And grace.

"Thou art not Death!" I cried;--
For Life's supremest fantasy
Had never thus envisaged Death to me;--
"Thou art not Death, the End!"

In accents winning,
Came the answer,--"_Friend,
There is no Death!
I am the Beginning,
--Not the End_!"




THE POTTER


A Potter, playing with his lump of clay,
Fashioned an image of supremest worth.