I

When I have come upon the green door, death,

The only opening in a sudden wall,

And pushed it wide, and shut it at my back,

I shall not care what lies before at all.

There may be gardens, Francis Bacon's gardens,

Where year-long blooming keeps eternal spring,

Where, after winter ivy, comes the tulip,

And then the rose, then apples ripening.

Not time, but turning seasons, in that garden,

Will pack with green the hedge above a wall,

And faintly on the air, down shaded pathways,

The smell of watermint, and flowers that fall,

And over green turf spread a colored carpet.

There may be gardens, safe forevermore,

Sunwarm and still, as only gardens growing

Can be still, in heaven behind that door.

II

There may be nothing past the door but silence,

As if the world has ended, and lies dead,

While I alone stare into mist, and listen,

Wait-and listen-and the Word is never said.

But in the mist and chill my blood is frozen.

The singing wires that vibrate in my brain

Go slack and slow, they lie in darkness tangled,

They rust in the eternal quiet rain.

III

But I have lived too much to guess of dying

That death's a garden, or to rhyme its fears,

And lived so long-a twelvemonth in a minute-

I think time goes by heartbeats, not by years.

Here in my heart I hold such strong abundance,

I do not care what lies beyond that door.

Life is enough. There is always music,

Always more love, more sun, and always more.

And if the green door opens on tomorrow,

And every friend still answers to his name,

A little death makes eloquent the daylight:

It will be glory that the world's the same.

And we have all been dead, who now are living!

Speak out the secret thing we're certain of:

We're back, we've all come back, we've all been given

A longer time to look, and touch, and love.

IV

I visit earth, a tall delighted stranger.

I'll never grow accustomed to her fires,

Nor storms, nor stars, nor wind on sunny waters,

Her hills of green where gazing never tires.

And this beloved face of daily living

Lights in a thousand different ways for me,

With brave and starry reasons for not dying:

There is too much to think about, and see.

I have made words to keep the level noontime,

The loud clock ticking in the dark, and doors

Left open, apples, rugs, the Shakespeare sonnets,

Weight of a fireplace log, and creaking floors.

With what shortsighted love I lay up treasure

On earth, counting the firelight on the wall,

Hoarding up sudden laughter, loaded bookshelves,

And rows of poplars golden in the fall.

I've stopped to light a pipe in woods in winter;

I've charged the surf that rolls on summer sand;

I've run the flag up, felt the long thin halyards

Tugging, and held the wind in either hand.

I praise the children and the fierce old women,

The graceful girls, the tall and ruddy men;

I praise them all with love, and in their faces

I think I see my love returned again.

And I am proud for poems men have written,

Their craving satisfied with English words;

And violins, invented for a music

Like sunlight on a line of whirling swords.

I count the silent clearness back of mirrors,

The fingers' touch on leaves, on wool, on brass,

The sound of bells, the sound of running water,

The smell of linen and of new-cut grass.

And I am rich with life that I remember,

Thinking of letters, hedges, lamps at night,

Thinking of sun, of empty churches, autumn,

Long hair let down, shining and softly light.

Though this be wealth I'll never take to heaven-

High rooms in panelled wood, with beams above,

Slow green surf, a men's choir, flags, wind, running-

This is a chant of praise for things I love:

A long music, and I ask for nothing more

This side the narrow portal, death's green door,

Only to cry with mind and heart and tongue

That death at any age is dying young.