Classic Poem

Death's the lover that I'd be taking;
Wild and fickle and fierce is he.
Small's his care if my heart be breaking —
Gay young Death would have none of me.

Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!
No one other my mouth had kissed.
I had dressed me in silk to meet him —
False young Death would not hold the tryst.

Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,
Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;
I must wait till he whistles for me —
Proud young Death would not turn his head.

I must wait till my breast is wilted,
I must wait till my back is bowed,
I must rock in the corner, jilted, —
Death went galloping down the road.

Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.
Fine he was in the game he played —
Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,
And rode away with a prettier maid.