Yestereve, Death came, and knocked at my thin door. I from my window looked: the thing I saw, the shape uncouth, I had not seen before. I was disturbed with fear, in sooth, not awe; whereof ashamed, I instantly did rouse my will to seek thee only to fear the more: Alas! I could not find thee in the house.

I was like Peter when he began to sink. To thee a new prayer therefore I have got that, when Death comes in earnest to my door, Thou wouldst thyself go, when the latch doth clink, and lead him to my room, up to my cot then hold thy child’s hand, hold and leave him not, till Death has done with him for evermore.

Till Death has done with him? Ah, leave me then! And Death has done with me, oh, nevermore! He comes and goes to leave me in thy arms,nearer thy heart, oh, nearer than before! To lay thy child, naked, newborn again of mother earth, crept free through many harms, upon thy bosom still to the very core.

—George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul