Laureate

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!