The Bookshop has a thousand books, All colors, hues, and tinges, And every cover is a door That turns on magic hinges.

Death is only an old door Set in a garden wall On quiet hinges it gives, at dusk When the thrushes call. Along the lintel are green leaves, Beyond, the light lies still Very weary and willing feet Go over that sill. There is nothing to trouble any heart Nothing to hurt at all. Death is only an old door In a garden wall.

Oh, heart, let's never grow too old To smile anew, when Christmas comes, At tassels red and tinsel thread, And tarlatan bags f sugarplums.

Death is only an old door/Set in a garden wall.