Tis a fair neurosis, tis certain,
This fear of Death's works, complete
As they be, sending long shadows back
Into the lines of pale-lived,
Shaken and quailing 'neath his umbrage,
Conversing in hushed and reverent tones
Of fear and reticence, frightened
The wooly ears of ancient tuskéd Doom
Might apprehend blasphemes;
Then, full of spite, and spit,
Gore too soon the unlucky fool
Who uttered it.

Though moment 'pon moment pile proof 'pon proof
That his many charms and wiles go yet for naught,
Still ever the faithful cower shadow'd, murm'ring
Hypocrisies industrious, studied, hoary incantations,
To stay the bony hands and toothy grin,
And all in futility. For e'en yet his gloomy hole
Yawns wide, roundabout, all concealed, and all
Watch round, as in a candle sphere,
For the spoor and portents of his lair;
And all his encumbrances, thieves of ease,
Haunting those alive, as grave-robbers,
Muttering in ears, implacable.

Well; he's not come yet, nor will he
Tomorrow, nor next week, though will he,
To be certain. Death has his bulky book! and many
Schedules to fulfill, and goes naught wanting
For fill of work; Yet we tarry, and slumber, and elude
His obscure summons another day or hour, which,
For want of which, we are, in truth,
Immortal.