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!