Friday 14 December 2012

A Brush with Death, or


Death with a Brush.

Poets with their latest breath
Speak fearfully of dusty death.

Not dusty now, for round the tomb
Here comes Death pushing his broom.

Some dream of skeletons that clasp
Fainting maidens in their grasp.

But  Death has other things in mind:
It is their besoms his fingers find.

The rich man in his palace,
The poor man in his hovel,
Death will find out every one
And sweep them on his shovel.

And lo! as, sat in triumph, I
Grow pale as Death comes sweeping by,

And, in the sickbed’s midnight hush,
Hear Death approach pushing his brush.

Both meek and strong, so fare we all
To God’s small acre.
Where Death shall take away our care.
(He is the caretaker.)

Next Week: Death and the Midden

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