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!