By Julia Koslowsky
I COULDN’T stop to visit Death
Upon his tranquil hill.
Instead of this, he took his horse
Where I had taken ill.
He sat down by my bedside
Without a sound or sigh—
He gently reached across the quilt
And put his hand in mine.
A rasp escaped my burning lips:
“I hoped you’d come to call.”
Answered he, “My dear, you’re free—
Why need you stay at all?”
So up I rose from ‘neath the sheets
Which were as white as snow.
My pallid hand in his remained,
My soul a forgotten glow.
Walking through the moonlit land
I saw no bird pass by.
I asked and he gave answer:
“When they’re dead they do not fly.”
Lovers of a foreign kind
Are I and Death, and Death and me.
Companions to Eternal life
Together we will be.