By John Delonas
Death concerns itself not with me; No need to lift his gown Above the litter of mourners That surround this poor stick. Not at the end of his appointed journey, But in the middle will he find me, Resting in a country lane With a lapful of daisies, And hair all wet with running the grassy lea; Quite breathless with shiny eyes, So he will catch me, quite unaware, Waiting for the White Knight To cross the wooden stile at last.