Death is the breath,
Before the plunge,
Into icy water,
That swiftly runs.
Death is a rose,
Iron stemmed and thorned,
It ****** a finger,
And does not mourn.
Why do we this burden bear?
This sickly thing,
That picks our brains,
And pulls our hair?
"We have no choice,"
Say us all,
"We all must walk the dreaded hall, 
Death's cackle all will hear,
Low and slow, in their ear.
All will feel when time is near,
The heart, icy chilled, with fear.
All will bate their precious breath,
When death, so snugly, starts to set,
And nevermore, to life, returneth."