I am the blood that flows
Why does the sea moan evermore?
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
When I put out to sea
Is it not sweet to die?
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone.
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.