Viaticum

I The bed is rich with gilt and jet, The silken sheets are edged with lace. Death watches on the coverlet A withered face. II The courtiers chant their false lament, Professing each his sorrow here; A ghostly priest gives sacrament. The end is near. III The droning voices whisper low; And listless threads of incense rise. Tall pontificial candles glow; A noble dies. IV Ora pro nobis! He is gone. Beside the face austere and cold, Then gloat the knaves who watched till dawn To share his gold. V Why posture sorrow now, or cry; The soul that goes comes not again. But ere the day breaks, more shall die, By brothers slain. VI Now bursts the long pent bloody hate That by one taking, Death gave seed. He shall have more ... see, he will wait! For Death sowed greed.