Mario Vitale Poet Free verse

Death

Death, thou was once an uncouth hideous thing,
 Nothing but bones,
 The sad effect of sadder grones,
 Thy mouth was open, but thou could not sing

 For we considered thee as at some six
 Or ten years hence,
 After the loss of life and sense,
 Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks

 We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;
 Where we did find
 The shells of fledge souls left behind
 Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort

 But since our saviors death did put some blood
 Into thy face;
 Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
 Much in request, much sought for as a good

 For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
 As at dooms day;
 When souls shall wear their new array,
 And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad

 Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
 Half that we have
 Unto an honest faithful grave;
 Making our pillows either down, or dust.

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