When I consider some day wanton Death
With sudden hand ungently laid above
The heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,
Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;
Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,
Inevitable and unheralded
As frosts in May that strike the blossom dead--
Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;
When I consider that her limbs shall be
Set stiffly in a strong rigidity;
That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,
Unsightly in a horrible decay,
Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath--
A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!
_LEO WARD_
(_CHRIST CHURCH_)