For he knew full well his mart.
“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—
The boy in his childish glee,
The maiden young, and the old man gray:
Yet they all shall come to me.”
And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak—
The old man yielded his breath—
And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek,
As she sank in the arms of Death.