Explore "Death" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: / A fresher birth brings every new year in. / Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. / See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! / My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, / Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. / -- Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! / Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled: -- / Behind me comes a shining one indeed; / Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, / And set upon his day night's starry crown! / _Death_, say'st thou? Nay -- thine be no caitiff creed! -- / A woman-angel! see -- in long white gown! / The mother of our youth! -- she maketh speed.