Writing a ‘natural’ death scene may come easily for some, but definitely not for me. Murder? Yes, that I can do. Suicide? Sure, not a problem. Emotionally wrecking, soul wrenching, machinations for dehydration?
\n
\nApparently not so much.<\/p>\n
I’ve been going over my notes for my NaNoWriMo project in preparation for a hopeful finish in March. Unfortunately, this means sorting through a great many ‘sad’ things, as writing a death (a peaceful one, not accidental or murder) is a lot more difficult than I remember. In fact, it’s why I set the work aside in December… I just couldn’t write his death.<\/p>\n
So here we have it, the bits and pieces that reflect my thoughts on the solemn slumber that is death. The first, of course and always, the poem my grandmother gave to me when my twin girls were born too prematurely to survive.<\/p>\n
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
\nAnd, with his sickle keen,
\nHe reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
\nAnd the flowers that grow between.<\/p>\n
“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he;
\n“Have naught but the bearded grain?
\nThough the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
\nI will give them all back again.”<\/p>\n
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
\nHe kissed their drooping leaves;
\nIt was for the Lord of Paradise
\nHe bound them in his sheaves.<\/p>\n
“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
\nThe Reaper said, and smiled;
\n“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
\nWhere he was once a child.<\/p>\n
“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
\nTransplanted by my care,
\nAnd saints, upon their garments white,
\nThese sacred blossoms wear.”<\/p>\n
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
\nThe flowers she most did love;
\nShe knew she should find them all again
\nIn the fields of light above.<\/p>\n
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
\nThe Reaper came that day;
\n‘Twas an angel visited the green earth,
\nAnd took the flowers away.<\/p>\n
The day is done, and the darkness
\nFalls from the wings of Night,
\nAs a feather is wafted downward
\nFrom an eagle in his flight.<\/p>\n
I see the lights of the village
\nGleam through the rain and the mist,
\nAnd a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
\nThat my soul cannot resist:<\/p>\n
A feeling of sadness and longing,
\nThat is not akin to pain,
\nAnd resembles sorrow only
\nAs the mist resembles the rain.<\/p>\n
Come, read to me some poem,
\nSome simple and heartfelt lay,
\nThat shall soothe this restless feeling,
\nAnd banish the thoughts of day.<\/p>\n
Not from the grand old masters,
\nNot from the bards sublime,
\nWhose distant footsteps echo
\nThrough the corridors of Time.<\/p>\n
For, like strains of martial music,
\nTheir mighty thoughts suggest
\nLife’s endless toil and endeavor;
\nAnd to-night I long for rest.<\/p>\n
Read from some humbler poet,
\nWhose songs gushed from his heart,
\nAs showers from the clouds of summer,
\nOr tears from the eyelids start;<\/p>\n
Who, through long days of labor,
\nAnd nights devoid of ease,
\nStill heard in his soul the music
\nOf wonderful melodies.<\/p>\n
Such songs have power to quiet
\nThe restless pulse of care,
\nAnd come like the benediction
\nThat follows after prayer.<\/p>\n
Then read from the treasured volume
\nThe poem of thy choice,
\nAnd lend to the rhyme of the poet
\nThe beauty of thy voice.<\/p>\n
And the night shall be filled with music,
\nAnd the cares, that infest the day,
\nShall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
\nAnd as silently steal away.<\/p>\n