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!