by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
— Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
— From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
— A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
— You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
— Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
— They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
— Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
— Yea, beds for all who come.

In Chesterton's phrase, the decent inn of death.

Would you like to read some poetry?
Or would you like to see something wonderful?