“You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

“The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring.”

Ah, foolish world!  O most kind dead! 
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the old sweet voice, in the dear old way,

“The utmost wonder is this—­I hear
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

“And am your angel, who was your bride. 
And know, that though dead, I have never died.”

SHAPES OF DOOM

THE DEAD COACH:  KATHERINE TYNAN

At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
Heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time had come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track,
The coach and horses midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said,
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill. 
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow’s tears that fall!

DEID FOLK’S FERRY:  ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

’Tis They, of a veritie—­
  They are calling thin an’ shrill;
We maun rise an’ put to sea,
  We maun gi’e the deid their will,
We maun ferry them owre the faem,
  For they draw us as they list;
We maun bear the deid folk hame
  Through the mirk an’ the saft sea-mist.

“But how can I gang the nicht,
  When I’m new come hame frae sea? 
When my heart is sair for the sicht
  O’ my lass that langs for me?”
“O your lassie lies asleep,
  An’ sae do your bairnes twa;
The cliff-path’s stey and steep,
  An’ the deid folk cry an’ ca’.”

O sae hooly steppit we,
  For the nicht was mirk an’ lown,
Wi’ never a sign to see,
  But the voices all aroun’. 
We laid to the saut sea-shore,
  An’ the boat dipped low i’ th’ tide,
As she micht hae dipped wi’ a score,
  An’ our ain three sel’s beside.

O the boat she settled low,
  Till her gunwale kissed the faem,
An’ she didna loup nor row
  As she bare the deid folk hame;
But she aye gaed swift an’ licht,
  An’ we naething saw nor wist,
Wha sailed i’ th’ boat that nicht
  Through the mirk an’ the saft sea-mist.