William Blake (1757–1827)

To Queen Charlotte

THE DOOR of death is made of gold,

That mortal eyes cannot behold;

But, when the mortal eyes are clos’d,

And cold and pale the limbs repos’d,

The soul awakes; and, wond’ring, 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 Sov’reign’s feet,

‘The Grave produc’d these blossoms sweet

In mild repose from earthly strife;

The blossoms of eternal life!’