We went in through the open door into the dark and quiet
And all we saw in that little room was his face in candle light.
He looked a man who did it well, with neither pain nor moan,
But who's to say there wasn't grief, for his wife is now alone.
I couldn't bear, seeing him there, remembering him so full of life,
So I continued on, down the hall, with pain that pierced like a knife,
Ne'er will I forget his wrinkled face and look of peacefulness
And that my heart it did touch and my soul it did caress.
Each time I passed the open door, n'er would I look in
For life was going on all around and death lay peacefully within
More on the origin of this poem in On Writing: Coming Out as a Writer