| Sonnet to Death
by Heath Bailey
Cold Death, who lays an icy hand on all
The children of the Two who fell from grace,
Boast not — thy victory's scope is sliver-small
And but a moment mars the human race.
Although the grave, in season, houses bones,
And Age, thy minion, plays me like a pawn,
Though for a day thou rulest, 'neath the stones,
Thy grip, though fearful, thee will fail ere dawn.
For in these realms of Love thou canst not reign:
The widow's faith, the kinship in a home,
And lover's vows. Thy frightenings are in vain,
For these thou hast not strength to overcome.
What then if for a moment Death bring grief?
From Death, Love plunders Life, a welcome thief.
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