Poems (Hinchman)/O lusty Death, why have men call'd thee pale
XXVII
O lusty Death, why have men call'd thee pale,Spoke thee a shade, a gatherer of the fallen?Thou greedy Death! Had thy food only beenThe feeble and the old, then might thy bonesRattle against thy starv'd unsupple skin,And thy swift arm hang unnerv'd at thy side.But thou dost feed on babies and on maidsPlump with the ruddy freshness of their youth;Strong men thou fellest to pack thy gaping maw;The richest harvest crams thy hungry mouth;Thy gloomy coat is crimson-lin'd, O Death,And I have seen it blow back in the windOf life that roar'd to thee: "Back, back,Thou claimest thine too early. I yet am strong."—Thy equal for an hour! but could not stayThy ravenous greed or that thy crushing arm,Thou lusty, stout, unconquerable Death!