Thrice a broken clock,
Would not a fool dare mock,
Unless it lay upon his wrist,
He’d shun this transient vex amidst,
The flames and seething bate, –
But then turn and smile with an accepting bow,
And walk a quiet step unconcerned with this row,
Head held high, to his own fate.
Upon his entry he received,
A lovely piece of golden thread,
With wine, and meat, he breathed relieved,
That Death mistakenly thought him dead.
He asked of what his only kin,
And pleaded for their safe demise,
In turn, he offered his only prize,
An ensign found beneath his skin.
A glance was given to him appeased,
His prize beheld, but not bequeathed.
And kindness contained these two in peace,
That Death in turn wished not to cease.
To the humble heart with whom he dined,
A toast to all his dreams defined,
A promise too he pledged to share,
His riches and affectionate care.