Death is only an old door

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.