The Keys of Morning

While at her bedroom window once,Learning her task for school,Little Louisa lonely satIn the morning clear and cool,She slanted her small bead-brown eyesAcross the empty street,And saw Death softly watching herIn the sunshine pale and sweet.His was a long lean sallow face,He sat with half-shut eyes,Like an old sailor in a shipBecalmed 'neath tropic skies.Beside him in the dust he'd setHis staff and shady hat;These, peeping small, Louisa sawQuite clearly where she sat--The thinness of his coal-black locks,His hands so long and leanThey scarcely seemed to grasp at allThe keys that hung between:Both were of gold, but one was small,And with this last did heWag in the air, as if to say,'Come hither, child, to me!'

Louisa laid her lesson bookOn the cold window-sill;And in the sleepy sunshine houseWent softly down, untilShe stood in the half-opened door,And peeped; but strange to say,Where Death just now had sunning satOnly a shadow lay;--Just the tall chimney's round-topped cowl,And the small sun behind,Had with its shadow in the dustCalled sleepy Death to mind.But most she thought how strange it wasTwo keys that he should bear,And that, when beckoning, he should wagThe littlest in the air.