Who's Next?

Shudder not, for it’s the language of Death. Who’s next? —it asks Going from house to house, Both of marble and mud It cares not Nor fears man, rich or poor, Warrior or coward, Whose nest it visits, His cold arms ready for embrace, Ready to snatch Life is just but one lugubrious journey On sea or on land or on air, Which must end with the sound of A school bell signalling the end of a recess. So rejoice not when one, friend or foe, drops from the line, For you could be next And your kinsman next after you. One after the other, We drop Like one old, battered leaf after another, in the Spell of autumn.