Under our thatch, friend, place shall abide for you, touch but the latch, friend, the door will swing wide for you!
Nancy Byrd TurnerDeath 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.
Nancy Byrd Turner