is a coward whose face stays unshown.
He steals in unseen and slips away quick,
with petty excuse: while sewing alone
my loving Julia happened to prick
her finger with needle. By the next day
her face was all sallow, pallid and slick.
I sat by her bed for three days and prayed,
but all of us knew that hope was not left.
'Cause by the fourth day she'd wasted away.
Sometime that night, while my sweet Julia slept,
Death entered the door and took her for his,
without announcement, and left us bereft.
Skulker of darkness and robber of bliss,
Death is a coward who hides in the mist.
-- © 1999, W.A. Seaver.