| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 718. The Two Mysteries |
| | | By Mary Mapes Dodge |
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| WE know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; | |
| The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; | |
| The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; | |
| The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. | |
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| We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; | 5 |
| This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; | |
| We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, | |
| Nor why we’re left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. | |
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| But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day,— | |
| Should come and ask us, “What is life?”—not one of us could say. | 10 |
| Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; | |
| Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see! | |
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| Then might they say,—these vanished ones,—and blessëd is the thought, | |
| “So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you naught; | |
| We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death— | 15 |
| Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath.” | |
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| The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, | |
| So those who enter death must go as little children sent. | |
| Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; | |
| And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. | 20 |
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