How strange, how passing strange, when we lie down
To sleep, to know that you are quite
Alone beneath the moon, the stars, the little leaves,
Within the night.
How strange, how passing strange to know-our eyes
Will gladden at the fine sweet sight
Of you no more, for now your face is hid
Within the night.
Strange, strange indeed, these things to us appear
And yet we know they must be right;
And though your body sleeps, your soul has passed
Beyond the night.
Ah! friend, it must be sweet to slip from out
The tears, the pain, the losing fight
Below, and rest, just rest eternally
Beyond the night.
And sweet it must be too, to know the kiss
Of Peace, of Peace, the pure, the white
And step beside her hand in hand quite close
Beyond the night.
Written by Angelina W. Grimke (1880-1958)
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