Death as the Fool

In the high turret chamber sat the sage,
Striving to wring its secret from the scroll
Of time;—and hard the task, for roll on roll
Was blurred with blood and tears, or black with age.
So that at last a hunger seized him, a rage
Of richer lore than our poor life can dole,
And loud he called on Death to dower his soul
With the great past's unrifled heritage.

And lo, a creaking step upon the stair,
A croak of song, a jingle,—and Death came in
Mumming in motley with a merry din
And jangle of bells, and droning this refrain,
"God help the fools who count on death for gain."
So had the sage death-bell and passing-prayer.