Classic Poem

Death's hand is like a brother's hand when stretched toward one that's old,
When resting on the white thin locks, the bowed and burdened back;
But to warm youth his heavy hand is very, very cold: —
The white crape on the door-knob is darker than the black.

Ah, many a tired world-dimmed eye has seen Death's face and smiled,
And followed toward his beckoning hand and cared not to turn back;
But why should this stern stranger guest approach the little child? —
The white crape on the door-knob is darker than the black.

The black crape on the door-knob makes grave the careless eye,
And gives the dullest heart a sense of life's eternal lack,
The black crape on the door-knob awes every passer-by: —
But the white crape on the door-knob is darker than the black.