The Watcher In The Grass
S
Sheena Blackhall
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Some say that Death is old,
With hollow cheeks, and grey,
And that his touch so cold
Can wither in a day.
But I say Death is young,
He's lithe and full of grace
He turns Him round and laughs
To see Time in my face
In frailties I increase
So strong and tall grows He
The watcher in the grass
Of my mortality.
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