Said the red-cloaked crone

In a whispered moan:

“The dead man was limp

When laid in his chest;

Yea, limp; and why

But to signify

That the grave will crimp

Ere next year’s sun

Yet another one

Of those in that house—

It may be the best—

For its endless drowse!”

Said the brown-shawled dame

To confirm the same:

“And the slothful flies

On the rotting fruit

Have been seen to wear

While crawling there

Crape scarves, by eyes

That were quick and acute;

As did those that had pitched

On the cows by the pails,

And with flaps of their tails

Were far away switched.”

Said the third in plaid,

Each word being weighed:

“And trotting does

In the park, in the lane,

And just outside

The shuttered pane,

Have also been heard—

Quick feet as light

As the feet of a sprite—

And the wise mind knows

What things may betide

When such has occurred.”

Cried the black-craped fourth,

Cold faced as the north:

“O, though giving such

Some head-room, I smile

At your falterings

When noting those things

Round your domicile!

For what, what can touch

One whom, riven of all

That makes life gay,

No hints can appal

Of more takings away!”