What is Death?

Looking on a page where stoodGraven of old on old-world woodDeath, and by the grave's edge grim,Pale, the young man facing him,Asked my well-beloved of meOnce what strange thing this might be,Gaunt and great of limb.

Death, I told him: and, surpriseDeepening more his wildwood eyes(Like some sweet fleet thing's whose breathSpeaks all spring though nought it saith),Up he turned his rosebright faceGlorious with its seven years' grace,Asking—What is death?