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He.
He
Measures my pace
Upon his horse of bones,
As I walk along the road.
Oft turns his cowled skull to ask,
“Bearing well thy load?"
There is no refuge from his mocking,
The road is barbed to either side.
Bald-broken skull smiles at me, laughs;
"Why plod thee, when couldst ride?"
When, (as oft) I stumble,
He stretches down fleshless hand;
Grinning ivory grin; saying,
"Touch but my fingertips;
All, wouldst thou understand."
And as my burdens whelm,
I yearn towards my death,
And think how easier to sleep;
Then draw next weary breath.
He gazes out from hollow sockets,
No eyes where eyes should be;
Yet sees my outstretched hand, and cries;
"Take hold!"
"Swing thee up with me."
"Take hold;
And we shall gallop, gallop, gallop;
O'er clouds and endless sea."
"Gallop, gallop, gallop,
Cries, the Reaper;
None ride but ride with me."
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