The door of Death is made of gold,
That mortal eyes cannot behold:
But, when the mortal eyes are closed,
And cold and pale the limbs reposed,
The soul awakes, and, wondering, sees
In her mild hand the golden keys.
The grave is heaven’s golden gate,
And rich and poor around it wait:
O Shepherdess of England’s fold,
Behold this gate of pearl and gold!
To dedicate to England’s Queen
The visions that my soul has seen,
And by her kind permission bring
What I have borne on solemn wing
From the vast regions of the grave;
Before her throne my wings I wave,
Bowing before my sovereign’s feet.
The Grave produced these blossoms sweet,
In mild repose from earthly strife;
The blossoms of eternal life.
Read all of William Blake's poems · About William Blake
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog