Death passes no one by; all men must go.
Even from infancy he flutters nigh;
Faintly, as through thin fog, his footsteps grow;
He passes no one by.
Through his grey mask, flame flashes from each eye,
And gleaming shin-bones in the darkness glow;
His hands hold suffering and senility.
Sometimes he lays a toiling traveller low,
Smiting him, hawklike, from an open sky;
And sometimes, cat with mouse, his play is slow.
He passes no one by.