Classic Poem

If Love were jester at the court of Death,
And Death the king of all, still would I pray,
" For me the motley and the bauble, yea,
Though all be vanity, as the Preacher saith,
The mirth of love be mine for one brief breath! "
Then would I kneel the monarch to obey,
And kiss that pale hand, should it spare or slay;
Since I have tasted love, what mattereth!
But if, dear God, this heart be dry as sand,
And cold as Charon's palm holding Hell's toll,
How worse! how worse! Scorch it with sorrow's brand!
Haply, though dead to joy, 'twould feel that coal;
Better a cross, and nails through either hand,
Than Pilate's palace and a frozen soul!