Death in life

I wrote to death with a passionate cool ,
Thinking she was kind and true,
That she'll go easy on the dying part,
Now being the biggest fool,
I bragged acquaintance and gift,
A scar,  a few traumatic dreams -
Ignoramus, not knowing quite,
It seldom is what seems right.
The last is never too lightly past,
A path of jagged stones, and stormy sky,
A crumbling bridge grown with heather high,
Thistle and moss and death of hope,
Where the branched shadow of the Yew,  spreads calmness like a woven pall, beaded with tears,
On the suffering,  supplicant eyes, now grown mute,
That will not trace the familiar landscape no more,
But Requiscat in pace et in amore.