The Enemy

Though I am all for warmth and light,

For my full share of Earth’s delight,

How often must I stand perplexed!

Knowing that Death has little care

Who answers to his call, or where-

When his cold voice comes crying, ‘Next!’

If Joy should falter any day,

Have no unkindly thoughts, and say-

‘How hard and stained is this man’s note!’

But rather think Death sometimes comes

For early practise here, and hums

His hard, dry rattle in my throat.