Flowers of Transition [F0T]

Now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands<br>And sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves<br>Rain-rotten in rank lands,<br>Waste marigold and late unhappy leaves<br>And grass that fades ere any of it be mown;<br>And when thy bosom is filled full thereof<br>Seek out Death's face ere the light altereth,<br>And say "My master that was thrall to Love<br>Is become thrall to Death."<br>Bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan.<br>But make no sojourn in thy outgoing;<br>For haply it may be<br>That when thy feet return at evening<br>Death shall come in with thee. <br><br> -Algernon Charles Swinburne