And out of these and thee, I make a scene, a song (not fear of thee, Nor gloom’s ravines, nor bleak, nor dark⁠—for I do not fear thee, Nor celebrate the struggle, or contortion, or hard-tied knot), Of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees and flowers and grass, And the low hum of living breeze⁠—and in the midst God’s beautiful eternal right hand, Thee, holiest minister of Heaven⁠—thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all, Rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call’d life, Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death.