DEATH met a little child who cried
For a bright star which earth denied,
And Death, so sympathetic, kissed it,
Saying: 'With me
All bright things be!'--
And only the child's mother missed it.
Death met a maiden on the brae,
Her eyes held dreams life would betray,
And gallant Death was greatly taken--
'Leave,' whispered he,
'Your dream with me
And I will see you never waken.'
Death met an old man in a lane;
So gnarled was he and full of pain
That kindly Death was struck with pity--
'Come you with me,
Old man,' said he,
'I'll set you down in a fair city.'
So, kingly Death along the way
Scatters rare gifts and asks no pay--
Yet who to Death will write a sonnet?
If any dare,
Let him take care
No foolish tear be spilled upon it!
