Classic Poem

XII

Mantled in purple dusk, Imperial Death,
Thy throne Time's mist, thy crown the clustered stars,
Thy orb the world; — did Nature's countless wars
Yield insufficient incense for thy breath?

Hadst not enough with all who troop beneath
Thy inward-opening gates, whose shadowy bars
Give back nor kings in their triumphal cars,
Nor the worn throngs that old age hurrieth?

O sateless Death, most surely it was thou,
(A thousand ages, yea, and longer still,
Before the words were heard in Galilee)

That saidst with dark contraction of thy brow,
While through all Nature ran an icy chill:
" Now let the little children come to me. "