Death can not be tamed with words.
See ‘ere the hard life it doth hold.
See ‘ere the child, the path he leadeth, be he
Neither of the young and wise, nor foolish and old.

He sleeps now in the golden glade
Waiting, yet for he knows not what.
See ‘ere that arrow that doth fly,
To capture but, the Fair Lady of Shallot.

She doth falleth from the heavens high,
With shining wings of snowy down.
She hath a merry laugh doth she,
And her head doth boast a crown.

“I shot thee down from heaven,”
Sayeth he, “cupid’s arrow drew the line.
Thou bleedest the tears of red for me,
Doth that make thee mine?”

‘Ere be yet the saddest truth;
No angel descents that ‘ere can stay.
Tho she did falleth from the sky,
In the heavens she must lay.

To lose that which makes life,
Is to capture his worldly soul.
Death shall claim the living,
And make such being whole.

And so an old man,
He to-day doth die.
It be the young hearted man,
With his lover he doth lie,

Immortalised.