Classic Poem

He bore the brunt of it so long,
And carried it off with wine and song,
The neighbors paused and raised an eye
At hearing he had learned to die.

'Twas on a Friday that he died,
But Easter day his neighbors spied
His usual figure on the streets,
And one and all were white as sheets.

“I died,” said he, “on Good Friday,
And someone rolled the stone away;
And I come back to you alive
To die tonight at half past five.

“Monday at Babylon I fall,
And Tuesday on the Chinese wall;
Wednesday I die on the Thracian plain,
And Thursday evening at Compiègne.

“Saturday, Sunday, Monday too,
I die, and come to life anew;
Neighbors like Thomas look and touch,
Amazed that I can live so much.”