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Why should you fear the beautiful angel, Death
Who waits for you at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hands to close thine eyes?

Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou would view
Thy treasures wait for you in the far-off skies,
And Death, your friend, will give them all to you.

 

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

 

 

Judge Not

Judge not; the workings of his brain
    And of his heart thou cannot see;
What looks to your dim eyes a stain,
    In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
    Where thou would only faint and yield

The look, the air, that frets thy sight, 
    May be a token, that below
The soul has closed in deadly fight 
    With some infernal fiery foe,
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, 
    And cast thee shuddering on thy face !

The fall thou darest to despise— 
    May be the slackened angel’s hand 
Has suffered it, that he may rise 
    And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
    May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost, but wait, and see, 
    With hopeful pity, not disdain; 
The depth of the abyss may be 
    The measure of the height of pain 
And love and glory that may raise 
    This soul to God in after days!

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

 

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