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.
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.)
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